If I was in NASA preparing for a launch mission I’d be doing final safety checks. But I’m not an astronaut. I’m a seventeen-year-old in what I overheard my first foster mom call “a difficult situation,” which is like saying that a goldfish has a water problem. I’m not the problem; everything else is. My life hasn’t been difficult; it’s been stupid. It hasn’t made sense. Until now. So long as I don’t think about Willow, I’m fine.

Of course, I don’t sleep at all. Instead, I sit propped up on my bed, watching the clock change and listening to the sound of one of the girls snoring in the next room. They are going to be so upset about the play. I know that my running away is going to be hard on the Morgans. The girls will probably be confused and worried, and there will be a lot of questions from the foster care system and Kate/Kaitlin, but once all of that dies down and I’m officially gone for long enough, I hope that their lives will go back to normal. Nova will even get her room back, and I’m sure the littles will find someone new to cast in their tragedy.

I don’t mean to do it, but as I sit there, my brain insists on spitting out memory after memory of my time with the Morgans that no matter how hard I try, I can’t quite spin as bad. Simon’s endless invitations, all the dance rehearsals, the beach with Nova, Emma slipping me coffee.

In a completely different set of circumstances, the Morgans might have made me a great home. But no matter how many positive things happened, they can’t be my home. My mom might be a million things I wish she weren’t, but she’s my sun. She’s what I orbit, what I depend on to be me. Without its star, the Earth would be a lifeless ball of ice and rock. Without my mom, I’m spinning into oblivion.

It’s Willow I really can’t think about.

Once I leave, I won’t be able to contact her. Not only would it put Willow in a bad situation; it’s too risky for me and Mom. Because I’ve been removed from my mom’s guardianship, it will actually be illegal for me to be with her, so if anyone finds out where I am, I’ll be removed, and I know in my heart that I can’t survive that again.

I can contact Willow after I’ve aged out of foster care. Maybe she’ll be traveling, and I can meet her at a train station in Barcelona or on a bridge in Florence. By then, she’ll probably have figured out how to keep her shoelaces tied and her hair slightly less wild, but she’ll still be the same person, and we’ll pick up where we left off. We’ll still get our chance.

Or maybe it will be too late. Maybe you’ll never see her again.