Why can’t I be happy? No: I am happy. The day is bright and beau­ti­ful. It’s that time be­tween classes, I’m sit­ting on that bench on the grounds, the solid and com­fort­ing wood pushes back against me so strongly; the sad­ness can’t quite reach me.

“I’m fine,” I tell them. “Re­ally.” My face is an easy smile, I think. Does it sat­isfy them? They be­lieve me, I think. They smile back.

“We should hang out, yeah?” says Rachel. “Per­haps the week­end?”

We could see a movie or some­thing. It would be fun. It should be fun. I can do it. I can’t. “Yeah,” I say. It won’t hap­pen. She knows, does­n’t she?

“See you?” asks Rachel.

‘Could you stay?’ I ask, ‘For a bit?’ Only, I don’t say it. It’s not the kind of thing you say. They would­n’t want to hear it. They want to leave.

‘The week­end,’ I agree, but I don’t. I could­n’t. I’d weigh them down.

“I— Yeah,” I say, fi­nally. I can’t look at her, but I need her, but I don’t—

“You okay?” asks Rachel.

‘No,’ I say. But I can’t. I can’t be weak.

‘I don’t know,’ I try, but I can’t get it out. I can’t be that weight.

‘Help me!’ But the scream does not leave my lips. Not in front of Dan.

“Yeah, yeah, just— it’s a tir­ing day, you know?” I say. She’ll ac­cept it. Every­one does. Every day is tir­ing for every­one. Just go, go—

“C’­mon, Dan,” said Rachel. “See you, Emily!”

They walk away. I hear their foot­steps for min­utes.

They’re good friends. They can’t be good friends. I don’t let them be good friends. They’ll re­al­ize even­tu­ally. They’ll know me. They’ll see me. I can’t see me. I can’t. The pu­tres­cence makes me flinch away in shame, hid­ing my face from no one, alone and heavy on the bench.

I sink into wa­ter.