Anyone looking up at me through the window where bright turquoise curtains flow, would see the serene blank face of a First-World citizen, gazing out with eyes full of possibility and wonder at the bare, swaying trees underneath a glowing painter’s sky.

But the me that’s inside my head, the little me that has taken refuge behind the abstract files and boxes near the back of my brain, is afraid, and feels very, very alone.

This is no hysterical fear. There are no tears shed, no words or screams or hatred uttered; there is no blame to be sent. The fear is calm, spread throughout the whole of the little imaginary body, in a resting state. It is unfounded, has no base, but remains nonetheless.

Eyes glazed on the setting sun, I try to prod little me out from the boxes with empty, hopeless phrases I don’t really believe will help.

“We are lucky. There are no bombs here,” I say wearily.

Little me turns her expansive, void-like stare to my mind’s eye and says,

“No. Not yet.”

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