The first night . . .
Your world is frost. When you are not feeling nothing, you are feeling everything—and that everything feels like nothing, because you cannot process any of it. Everything is clinical, because that is the only way you can think. You no longer have emotions; you have cold rationality. Everything must be just so, in order, held together, because you aren’t, and you don’t know when you will be.
The second night . . .
Your world is Frost: You perished first in ice, dry and cold and astringent, but from what you’ve tasted of desire, you know the cruelty of fire. Your night is split not between nothing and everything, but between not enough and too much. When your distractions run out, the fire comes, leaving ice in its wake—anger and sadness pulsing through your heart. At least you’re feeling now.
The third night . . .
Your world is wrong. You feel okay sometimes, really okay, and you’re scared because you don’t know if you should, because the rest of you is still screaming silently, but the tears have stopped ripping through you, and you can think clearly now without suffering the slings and arrows, though the pebbles still sting. You’re learning how to live again, and it feels like you shouldn’t, but you will.
The fourth night . . .
Let me know when you’re there. Because I’m not there yet, and I’m scared, but I know I’m not alone. You’re not alone. And I need you to be here, so you can tell me that it gets better, because I know it will, but I need you to tell me. And I will tell you, and we will make it through this, and we will tell everyone else that it’s okay, and we will give them our shoulders, and we will give them our distractions, and we will pat out the flames, and we will melt the ice, to let them know that it gets better. It gets better.
And so on . . . and so on.