I decided to continue making my videos about old movies. I can’t help it. It’s always made me feel better, but I guess it’s different now. Maybe it’s kind of like I’m making a target for myself, but some part of me can’t shut it off. These old flicks are what I’ve always used to distract me from anything bad. I considered starting a new channel, or disabling the comments, but I haven’t because there are, even among the harshest and cruelest comments, sweet ones from strangers.

I DON’T KNOW WHATS GOING ON WITH THESE COMMENTS BUT YOU DO YOU GIRL KEEP IT UP

I LOVE YOUR CHANNEL DON’T LISTEN TO THESE TROLLS

KEEP MAKING GREAT VIDS YOU MAKE ME HAPPY YOUR FUNNY AND CUTE

Because of them, I keep going and keep looking at the comments. It’s a reflex, it’s a drug. I never reply to the comments, but I hope for them, I wait for them to reach me across the void.

I look out the window and see Reg’s car, shining in the pouring rain. I take off my headphones and then I hear him, chitchatting with Mom, making himself at home, keeping her away from me. I think of Lottie, at home, probably about to play a board game and hold hands around the table with her two dads and Paige. Assholes.

I lie on my bed, and with a sick feeling, I do what I can’t stop doing: I scroll through my phone. Insta, Snapchat, pictures, comments, likes, memes, videos, more, more, more, more. Our entire school is like a social media creature that never rests. They won’t forget me; their memories are long. I drop the phone beside me, where it pants and throbs like a living thing. I swallow a sob.

I am still, listening. The rain thuds, pounding and rattling, the best noise. Cars cutting through it with their wiiishhh wiiiishhhhh. I close my eyes. I remember being sick as a kid, lying here in the summer while everyone else was outside, and my room felt close and small and comforting while the noise outside was just background cushioning. Skateboards and scooters and feet on the sidewalk, all the kids yelling, summertime. Comfy and happy. I try to bring it back, that feeling, but it slipped out and went to another, younger kid’s house when I wasn’t looking. You can’t get that back, that kid stuff. I remember trying to play with my toys in the bath one day and realizing I didn’t really know how to do it anymore, and so I just lined them up on the edge and knocked them off, one by one.

I hear footsteps, and my mom taps on my door, pushing it open as she does.

“Hey Stevie, honey.”

“Hi.”