The intoxicating smoky green smell of the town, the way beer really tastes different, how young and real I look with the plumpness of my cheeks and softer curves, and my God, how incredible cream and butter and salt and sugar taste. How it feels to eat like a human. This cottage. The little totems of my past, proof that there is more to time than now.

Also, the friendships. I know the other me listed Cillian and Kiera, but how did she not exclaim at the miracle that it is to have them? And that they’re so special! How was she not more specific, to not mention Kiera’s patience or wit, her ability to set those around her at ease (I’ve not seen her around many other people, but I can tell it’s who she is). How funny she is, what a serious blessing it is to have someone over who knows their way around your house? Her nonjudgmental way of talking about past moments of embarrassment.

And Cillian! How amazing the food was that he made. How he has to be a really good person to get dumped and then make grilled cheese and soup for the girl (he thinks) who dumped him. And then to go on being nice enough to walk her through a panic attack. Plus, how completely special it is for a guy that hot to not be a total fuckboy.

But I know why she didn’t go into it. The same reason I didn’t in LA when I tried gratitude journaling. Because it was too hard to see my world for its good when its bad was so much louder and more distracting.

There’s nothing else much in the journals, only some disjointed ideas, so I put them away and realize with disgust that I haven’t bathed since LA. I’m starting to be able to smell my own hair, and that’s an emergency.

I’m amazed by the delightfully warm water and strong water pressure. There’s fresh eucalyptus hanging from the shower head and all kinds of fun shampoos and conditioners and hair masks.

I kind of wish I could stay in here all day, not figuring out what’s going on in my life.

In my lives.

I get out, blow-dry my hair, put on a little makeup, and spend about twenty minutes dithering over what to wear. I finally pick a pair of jean shorts, a clean white T-shirt, and a denim button-down over top.

I look at my phone again. Still too early to leave. I shoot Aimee a text.

Still on for noon, right?

She doesn’t respond right away, and it reminds me that I want to call my mom, who also didn’t answer my text.

I press her contact and sit on the edge of the bed with my foot tapping as I wait for her to answer.