Down to the water. It seemed to take forever, take no time at all. He kissed me here, I thought, as I sat on a bench, my bag on my lap—full of shirts and tampons and pens that probably didn’t work. Not here, but a few metres away. I could see the exact spot. He kissed me and I’d been careful then. I’d stopped it.

Not careful enough.

I pulled the postcard out of my bag. New York, fading away, like it had never existed in the first place.

A pen. Started writing. I didn’t know what I was writing until I was done.

Dear Lina,

I can’t come to your wedding. I thought I could but I can’t. I’m so sorry. I hope you can find someone else to be your maid of honour and I’ll pay you back for the ticket.

I love you. I hope it’s wonderful. I’m sorry.

Caitlin

It was easier than I thought it would be.

Too easy.

Easy to stand up, to pull my bag onto my shoulder. I felt lighter, smaller, than I had in months, years. I felt like I was floating. Flying. When I exhaled it was like I was exhaling lead, clearing my lungs, my head. I could walk. I could feel the last of the sun on my back, the air on my face, the lightness of my body. I didn’t hurt at all. I couldn’t feel anything and it was such a relief I wanted to weep.

I was just being careful.

I’m always careful.

It was easier than I thought it would be to find a postbox, to slip the faded, broken piece of cardboard through the slot. Easier to let it go, like letting go of a weight. Letting go of everything.

And then I heard the hollow thunk of it hitting the bottom of the box.

Gone.

I heard it and I felt it all again, everything. A flood, a torrent. And I did weep, but it wasn’t with relief, it was with fear.

‘Oh God,’ I said, to nobody.

What had I done?

What was I doing?

What would I do next?

My chest tightened and I felt the cold again, the blackness.

I started walking.

I walked home, straight home, for the first time I could remember. Almost ran. It was still light and there were so many cars and I could hear them, revving, braking, the squeal of tyres on bitumen. It was still light but there was something dark just behind me, chasing me, a gloved hand ready to seize my throat, an arm reaching across my chest. Tears ran down my face and they stung and there were so many people and they all looked at me and I had to run, to get away from them, to get away from the dark thing, whatever it was.

Be more careful.

My mum’s sick.