Page 112 of Micah

I'm allowed to want someone.

I'm allowed to tell him that I want him.

And if he doesn't feel the same?

Then I'll survive.

Yeah, it'll hurt.

Probably a lot.

But at least I'll know.

No regrets.

No wondering.

No lying awake imagining what might have been.

The water finally runs clear.

I shut it off and stand there for a moment listening to the quiet.

Then I spot it hanging from a hook beside the shower.

One of Micah's flannel shirts.

Probably left there for exactly this sort of emergency.

I smile.

It's enormous.

The soft fabric slips over my head and falls almost to the middle of my thighs.

The sleeves swallow my hands until I roll them twice.

It smells like him.

Fresh laundry.

Cedar.

Soap.

Home.

I brush out my damp hair, watching my reflection in the mirror.

I hardly recognize the woman staring back at me.

She's tired.

Bruised.

A little scared.

But there's something else there too.