The cat came in through the kitchen window the night I turned sixteen. She was orange and black and white like she couldn't decide what to be — which I respected. She sat on my chest and stared at me until I admitted out loud the thing I had been refusing to write down.

"I'm scared nobody will ever choose me first." I said it to the ceiling. She blinked once, slowly, the way cats kiss. Then she got up, walked to my notebook, and sat on the page like, girl. write the rest down.

So I did. I wrote about the boy at the bus stop and the friend who stopped texting and the dad I've never met and the C+ in chemistry. I wrote until my hand cramped. The cat watched. When I finally put the pen down she licked her paw like none of it had been a big deal.

That's how I learned: the thing in your chest gets smaller the second you write it down. Not gone. Smaller. Cat-sized. Carryable.
— to be continued.