Before I purse my lips, I open my eyes again, only to find that Emmitt is still staring at me. His face is patient, his eyes are bright, and his cheek is dimpling with a sweet smile.

When I’m with him, I don’t think about how I need to win the competition, even though I should. I don’t think about how my life hinges on someone else’s judgment.

I don’t think about anything. I don’t have to put on a show for anyone. I just exist.

Real, honest, true.

A show for two is what Emmitt said, and the more I think about it, the more it makes sense.

When it’s just him and me, we don’t have to be anything but ourselves. Is that enough?

I wish for happiness, I think instead, in whatever form it might be.

And then I blow.

When I get home, I sit on my bed and look at the fifty-dollar bill Ma gave me.

It’s like carrying the weight of the world in my palm, carrying the weight of my parents’ shame and disappointment and frustration.

My fingers slowly go slack and the bill flutters away. The moment it touches the ground, a sob escapes my throat.

The noise jars me, enough that tears spring to my eyes. They hang there for a minute as I hold my breath.

The pain inside me begins to build, rising up and up until it’s choking me.

And I decide to let go. I let go of the bitterness and the anger and the resentment and the heartache and the grief.

I blow out.

And I finally let myself cry.

Tears stream down my face, unrelenting, and the pain buried inside me rises to the surface, blooming like flowers on my skin.

Or maybe they’re thorns.

I cry, and I cry, and I cry.

Locking up all these emotions for so long has bred insidious thoughts inside me. But with each tear, I pluck away another dead dream, another dead hope. I deserve to be happy. I deserve to be happy.

The longer I let myself sob, the better I feel. It’s almost healing.

When I finally tire myself out, I crawl into bed, still sniffling. I stare at my ceiling, and a movie poster of Grease (1978) looks back at me.

I have to pull it together. I have to manage my mental health better. I know I’m going to live with my depression forever, but my coping habits need be less unhealthy. I can’t let myself bottle everything up until I hit a breaking point. At USC, I’ll use school resources to get therapy, but for now, I have to be there for myself. That’s the only way I’m going to get through the next few months.