There’s something not right with me, I know that. I don’t feel my feelings in the right way—this is not a new fact about Adam Hayes. Either I feel everything too much or I feel nothing at all, and I honestly couldn’t tell you which is worse. Right now, I’m inclined to say the latter, because that’s where I’m at in this current moment. I’m like a balloon with all the air let out, and I don’t know how to inflate again.

I thought I was doing better this year, or at least, I’m appearing better from the outside. My parents look at me with less concern in their eyes, they don’t make me leave the door open all the time, I don’t want to hurt myself anymore. As much. Well, I don’t hurt myself as much anymore. It doesn’t matter what I want. I’m good with not doing/getting/having what I want.

I’m good at a lot of things. I’m good at biology, at English, at debate, at piano. I’m even good at talking, if it’s in front of a class or an auditorium and not the terrifying one-on-one conversations where you’re expected to have a normal emotional response and give normal social and emotional cues. That I’m not good at. I do not excel at having feelings. Or, really, I don’t excel at having the right feelings. And I wish I had the energy to hate that I’m this way.

My parents’ voices drift in and out of my head and it sounds like I’m listening from underwater. I’m sinking further and further and can’t be bothered to swim up.

By the time the water clears from my ears and my brain resurfaces, I’m standing at the sink doing dishes. The repetitive motion is calming me, bringing me back to my body in a way that I’d been missing during dinner. As I come out of my daze, I notice the faint sounds of my parents in the dining room. It sounds like they’re arguing, which is … unusual. My heart rate picks up a bit as I turn off the faucet and move to the closed swinging door between the kitchen and dining room.

“… Sanchez wants to publish,” I hear my mom say.

“What? Why now?” my dad asks.

“He thinks the project was mishandled.”

“Then he shouldn’t have abandoned it,” my dad says sharply. So they’re arguing, but not with each other. That’s a bit of a relief, I guess.

“You know he was never really on board as the rest,” my mom sighs.

“Are there even any subjects left to back him up?” my dad asks wearily.

“Just the one.”

“That doesn’t mean that he—”