From a toddler, I had a hard time figuring out that when I turned away from something, or left a room, life still continued on outside my periphery.

As soon as my parents left out the door, they might as well have been presumed dead to me. Or maybe they were frozen in time, ice tugging back the signals sent down to their hands and feet, only released once I returned.

I've had to learn and adapt to the concept that the world doesn't revolve around my perception. And while I know this isn't true, and while I gather up images of my parents still talking in the living room when I leave to get a glass of water, see their laughter, the tap of my father's foot, the crow's feet of my mom's eyes––there's just...

Why do I feel so icy if there's not a storm of frost behind me, wherever I go?

I've got my toothbrush jammed into my teeth, battery whirring, mirrors still a little white from my late shower. Door closed, locked. Every light glaring. Water drips from beneath the towel soaking up my hair, cooly down the back of my neck.

In the morning, when I wash my face, rub the soap away from my eyes, I freeze. Do I look up from the sink? Should the first thing I do when I open my eyes be my bathroom mirror?

There's nothing in the mirror, nor is there anything wrong with it––that I know.

But what's behind me––

Do I even want to see?

...do I want to risk it?

I squeeze my eyes tighter, pointing my face down to the floor (wanting to scream at the blurry reflection of the silver tap), quickly finish up and spring out of the bathroom.

Now, whenever I go back––I check the shadows in the tub, the partially hidden toilet, behind the door, flash a light into the vent full of cobwebs and dust in the ceiling––because maybe if I see it before it sees me, it's not real, right? It can't scare me.

There's two hair ties now around every cupboard's handles. Another to hold the window latch in place. Nothing's getting in, but I'm not getting out, either.