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Back Little Universes Save as PDF
Chapters (63)
  1. Title Page
  2. Copyright Notice
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. Part 1
  6. Mae
  7. Hannah
  8. 1
  9. 2
  10. 3
  11. 4
  12. 5
  13. 6
  14. 7
  15. 8
  16. 9
  17. 10
  18. 11
  19. 12
  20. 13
  21. 14
  22. 15
  23. 16
  24. 17
  25. 18
  26. 19
  27. 20
  28. 21
  29. 22
  30. 23
  31. 24
  32. Part 2
  33. 25
  34. 26
  35. 27
  36. 28
  37. 29
  38. 30
  39. 31
  40. 32
  41. 33
  42. 34
  43. 35
  44. 36
  45. 37
  46. 38
  47. Part 3
  48. 39
  49. 40
  50. 41
  51. 42
  52. 43
  53. 44
  54. 45
  55. 46
  56. 47
  57. 48
  58. Epilogue
  59. Mental Health Resources
  60. Acknowledgments
  61. DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
  62. About the Author
  63. Newsletter Sign-up

I’m so tired. Days and days of detox takes it out of you. Everything hurts. Especially him. The desperate fear in his face. I think of the Fox telling the Little Prince: You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed. The Little Prince knows that forever and ever he will be responsible for his thorny rose. And the Fox, too, if he tames him.

I don’t want to be Drew’s burden. His responsibility.

I’m such a fucking loser.

So fucking weak.

I don’t deserve this diamond, this boy, this breath in my body.

“My mom can’t say anything to help me now, Drew. She’s dead.” I slide off his lap. “And I think a part of me is, too.”

An empty shell.

Nameless.

Nothing.

I lean down. Kiss him once. This is goodbye, but I don’t say that.

I have died so many times this week.

32

Mae

ISS Location: Low-Earth Orbit

Earth Date: 5 December

Earth Time (EST): 14:25

There are so many silences—good ones, like when Ben hugs me tight or I sit on a meditation cushion—but this one scares me. The silence behind her closed door.

I keep thinking about how quiet my sister’s death would be, if she overdosed: with respiratory suppression, you stop being able to inhale or exhale.

You forget how to breathe.

And now, when I open Nah’s bedroom door, I forget how to breathe, too.

I don’t know this person. This ghost sitting in the window seat.

An afghan Gram knitted a long time ago must have been wrapped around her at some point, but it’s fallen to the ground. Nah sits, looking out the window, onto the street, where wind whips hard and vicious through the bare branches, staring at nothing.

It’s been one week since she’s been back. She hasn’t left this room except for her therapy and drug testing at an outpatient clinic through Boston Children’s. That’s not entirely true—on her first night back after detox, Uncle Tony discovered Nah had snuck out of her window. There’s an alarm on it now that will go off if she opens it. She’s on home study because she refuses to go to school. She’s failing all her classes. I’m not sure if she’ll be able to graduate. I don’t think she cares.