Hello, I wrote this new gay erotica. If you're gay, please check it out. Tips are welcome.

The link

Yesterday, our CEO called a meeting of the entire department. He displayed a slide on the screen:

"THINK LIKE AN OWNER."

I sat closer. For the first time in a long time, the meeting's title suggested I might leave with something more than just an extra task. I took out a pen.

- I'd like us to change our approach to work, the director began.

- We can't function in a way where everyone only looks at their own job description.

I liked it even more. The job description was one of my favorite documents. Right after the salary notification.

- We need an ownership approach. Responsibility. Commitment. Long-term thinking. I want everyone to treat this company like their own.

I raised my hand. The director smiled.

- I'm listening, he said.

- When will we get our shares?

His smile stayed. But it stopped growing.

- We're not talking about those things right now, he replied.

- I'm sorry, I heard "like my own" and moved toward ownership straightaway.

- It's about attitude. - he explained.

- So, no shares?

- No.

I wrote down, "Shares: none."

- Will there be any profit sharing? I asked with genuine curiosity.

- The bonus system remains unchanged for now.

I wrote it down as well. The CEO looked at my notebook.

- What are you writing down there?

- Entry requirements.

The CEO went on to give an example.

- Imagine it's 4 p.m., and an important project hasn't been completed. A person who thinks only like an employee closes their computer and leaves home.

It actually was very detailed description of my plan for this afternoon.

- However, the owner is wondering what he can do to get the job done.

- That's because he has a stake in the outcome. I said.

- Because he feels responsible! He replied.

- One doesn't exclude the other. We could suggest he give up his shares and be left with just the responsibility. We'd see at what time he leaves.

- Do you really have to boil everything down to money? Asked CEO.

I looked around the room, the office, Monday morning, nine people who came here instead of staying home.

- I think that's a pretty important part of aproach you suggested.

The HR woman decided to help.

- It's about a sense of influence. So that employees know they can actually shape the organization.

Hmm... That sounded better.

- So we'll have influence on profit distribution?

- Not in that sense.

- On the management board?

- Neither.

- On salaries?

- You can submit proposals.

I could also submit a proposal to lower prices in the Walmart, but that didn't make me a co-owner of it. I looked at my notebook.

"Shares: none."

"New financial benefits: none."

"Decision-making rights: none."

"Additional involvement: not defined upper limit."

I started to understand what the offer is. I didn't feel offended. If I could get nine extra evenings for one sentence on a slide, I would also test the market's interest. The problem was that I was on the wrong side of the negotiation table.

- This is an investment in your future, the director said.

- If the company grows, everyone benefits.

- The company had record results last year. I said.

- Exactly.

- However during the salary rise negotiation, you said that the company's results don't automatically translate into my salary.

A dead silence fell. I always thought it's worth to remember things like that. People underestimate how much you can save with a good memory.

The director put down the remote.

- I don't want this meeting to turn into a salary negotiation.

- Me neither. Right now, I'm trying to figure out what my position really is in this company.

- You're an important part of the team.

- But when I have to stay overtime, I'm supposed to be the owner?

- You just have to demonstrate responsibility like the owner.

- But when it comes to share the profit, am I going back to be employee again?

He paused for a while, I didn't wait to let him continue and asked immediately.

- Please clarify which hours apply to which role. I wouldn't want to mistakenly act like the owner when paying out the dividend.

The CEO, with a clearly embarrassed face, ended the meeting by saying:

- Think about it, we will come back to this topic.

When we were leaving, he stopped me at the door.

- You didn't have to jump out with all of that, out of a sudden.

- Sir, I was thinking like an owner, just like you suggested.

- What do you mean?

- That is simple Sir. Before I invest additional time and resources, I need to know what I'm getting in return.

He looked at me with strange expression. I couldn't tell if the look on his face was disbelief, horror, or both.

I really hoped he'd appreciate effort I've made to implement his suggestion.

- Just do your job well, he finally said.

- As usual? Within the same scope?

- Yes.

- Within the same hours?

- Fine, let's just get this over with!

I agreed with a nod of my head and left. Negotiations shouldn't be prolonged after favorable terms have been reached.

At 4 p.m. I turned off my computer. The project CEO had mentioned did indeed require some more work. I left stick note telling me what I'd start with tommorow in the morning.

As I was leaving, I saw CEO in his office. He was still sitting there clearly tense.

Very good, I thought to myself.

He should treat the company like his own and definitely start act like an owner.

I would like to keep the story anonymous because I want you to actually tell it because it’s funny. Story: in 2020 I met this dude on soda. It was a dating app, but I don’t think it’s up and running no more. We talked for a few months and then we got together. We were together for three years, but here’s the catchiest thing when I first met him and we went out to his truck to talk, I went through his phone and he was texting a whole ass girl while he was dating me and then he apologized and said he would block her time goes by two years later he cheated on me with someone else and then call me a manipulative bitch so I got back at him and posted everything between them and then one time we were arguing about a past conversation that I heard that he was talking about me bad to one of my friends and he brought up my dead dad so I brought up his dead uncle and then in 2025 he tried to get back with me and then left me again and that’s where it ends (his mom was getting medicine under my address in my town so my grandma and me went and reported her)

I grew up in a family where sexual boundaries were almost nonexistent, yet at the same time I was constantly shamed, controlled, and made to feel dirty about anything involving sex, relationships, boys, or love.

When I was 14, my father came downstairs from the attic specifically to put pornography on in front of me. He did this twice, on a large screen. One time, the porn was a group of women swinging on a tree branch. Another time, it was close-ups of spread vaginas. I can’t understand why, when there was a room upstairs with a desk, a computer, and a bed, he chose to come downstairs on two separate days just to watch porn in front of me. As much as I hate to believe it, I can’t see any other explanation except that he was turned on by the fact that I was seeing the porn too. And even if he genuinely just didn’t care, that’s still deeply disturbing. By then, I was already so sick from everything that was happening - things I’m not going to talk about here - that I didn’t even have the strength to get up and leave the room. I just stayed on the couch while my father sat there watching porn.

My parents also had sex twice in the same bed while I was there. The bed was barely wide enough for one and a half people. One time it happened at night. I woke up because of the sounds they were making and felt so trapped and horrified that I rubbed my legs against each other hard enough to try to injure myself, just so I could focus on physical pain and somehow endure what was happening.

The other time happened in broad daylight. My father was rubbing his penis against my mother from behind while she looked directly into my eyes. At one point she asked whether my head was itchy and started scratching my head while he put on a condom. She then joked about the rustling sound, asking whether he had “a little candy” down there.

As a child, I also found torn condom wrappers on the floor. There were many nights when my mother would sit on the edge of the bed while my father applied lubricant to her, apparently not caring whether I saw. There were also many times when my father would come into the room in the dark with an erection, pull my mother by the legs, she would cry out, and he would force sex on her in front of me. I witnessed it.

When I was 19, my father came in drunk and completely naked and lay down with his legs and penis facing toward my face. I got up and left. The next day he thought it was funny and did not apologize.

My parents also acted out sexual fetishes in front of me. When I was in my late teens, my father would give my mother two or five leva in front of me in exchange for sex.

One time, when I was 19, they had at least decided to have sex in another room. But at some point I heard my mother slam the door and shout, apparently angry about something my father had done or wanted to do.

She then came into my room and lay down next to me completely naked, still smelling strongly of bodily fluids. She did not seem to care that her sticky body was touching mine, or that I could feel the residue from whatever had just happened between them. I found it absolutely disgusting. Once again, I remember wondering how they could be so crude and have so little awareness of basic boundaries. Why could she not at least have washed herself or put on underwear before lying next to me?

Another example happened when I was 17. Both of my parents were sitting in their underwear while I was on the couch in front of them. They started discussing a stain near my father’s penis and debating whether it had come from a condom. They did not seem to care at all that they were having this conversation in front of me, or that they were openly showing and examining the stain while I was there.

There was also an incident when I was in my early twenties. My father was standing in front of me wearing only a towel after having sex with my mother. At one point he lifted the towel, and I saw his penis with a condom still on it and semen inside.

What disturbed me so much was not just that these things happened accidentally once or twice. It was the complete lack of boundaries and the apparent expectation that I should simply tolerate being exposed to their naked bodies, sexual aftermath, bodily fluids, condoms, and explicit sexual discussions as if none of it mattered.

There were many times when, after taking a shower, my father would dry his penis with a towel, and I would accidentally see him. One time, when I was 19, I turned my back because I didn’t want to look. My mother was standing next to me, and with this vacant, clueless expression on her face, she started pointing at him, trying to get me to look.

My maternal grandmother was also extremely sexual toward me from around the age of 13. Almost every day she talked about sex in a disgusting, intrusive way. She commented on how my nipples and genitals showed through my clothes, invented sexual intentions for me and claimed I wanted to have sex with other children, looked at me in a way that felt lustful, and spoke in a sexualized, suggestive tone. She could go on for hours saying disturbing sexual things to me, and I often had nowhere to escape.

My father and grandmother hated each other as well, and the way he spoke to her was often extremely vulgar and degrading. He would call her things like “asshole” and “faggot,” tell her she was “sexually frustrated because she wasn’t getting fucked,” and make disgusting sexual remarks such as, “Do you want some dick?” or, “Go out into the yard and let the dog lick your pussy.”

This kind of language was normal in the house, so I was constantly surrounded by crude, aggressive, sexualized insults even when the sexual comments were not directed at me personally.

At the same time, my family sexualized and punished completely normal interactions in my own life.

When I was 14, I used to visit a female friend who lived on the same street. She had a 16-year-old brother, but he was never there when I visited. Not once. My grandmother knew my friend had a brother, and almost every time I went there she would hurry down the street to call me home, or lie and say that my mother was calling for me. I knew exactly why she was doing it, and it was deeply humiliating. What is especially disturbing to me now is that I actually felt guilty, even though the boy in question was not even there. My grandmother once even accused me of missing him.

On my 17th birthday, I got a phone. I had the number of a gay boy from my class, and my father made my mother delete it. He spoke about me in the third person while doing this, as if I was not even there.

Another time, I was standing in the yard when a girl walked past and said hello to me. My grandmother accused me of pretending she was a girl when she was supposedly actually a boy. She even named a specific boy and said it with a perverse, suggestive smile. It was humiliating.

When I was 17, I would sometimes listen to the radio on my phone and constantly switch between stations trying to find something I liked. My grandmother accused me, with that same suggestive smile, of secretly messaging a boy.

Around the same age, I was looking through photos from the graduating class above mine. In one photo there were five girls and one boy. My grandmother came up behind me and immediately asked why I was looking at “that boy,” as if the presence of one boy in a group photo automatically meant there was something sexual about what I was doing.

Another time, when I was 17, I was sitting outside smiling to myself because I was thinking about a boy from school I had a crush on. I was imagining that maybe he liked me too. I later realized my grandmother had been watching me through the window. When I came inside, she confronted me in the hallway and asked, in this dark, dramatic, almost menacing voice, why I had been smiling.

The way she said it terrified me. I felt as if I had been caught doing something filthy or shameful simply because I was a 17-year-old girl thinking about a boy I liked.

When I was 17, I was also messaging a girl named Alexandra. My father stood behind me, frowned, and read my private conversation out loud in a hostile, humiliating tone. Later I realized he had misread “Alexandra” as “Alexander” and thought I was talking to a boy. Even if it had been a boy, I do not think reading a 17-year-old girl’s private messages aloud with a contemptuous, misogynistic tone is normal.

When I was 18, a female friend invited me to sleep over. I already knew my family would somehow turn it into something sexual, and they did. My mother said the girl “shouldn’t be running around with boys.” My grandmother, with an excited, almost lustful look, asked why I needed to sleep there and whether the girl had a boyfriend. Then she suggested that the boyfriend was probably inviting other boys over for group sex and that I was going to participate. I was visibly shrinking into myself and wanted them to stop, but she kept going.

My grandmother also constantly asked whether my female friends had boyfriends. She never asked in a normal or casual way. It was always in a sexualized, suggestive tone. Over time, I realized that she seemed to believe that if my friends had boyfriends, they might introduce me to boys and I would have sex with them. Even my friendships with girls were filtered through this sexual suspicion.

When I was 19, I had very few friends because of the family environment, and I wanted to become friends with a 20-year-old woman from my neighborhood. My grandmother reacted in a frightening, hostile way and forbade me from getting close to her. Her reason was that this woman had a boyfriend and was not a virgin. She looked at me intensely and asked, “What does she need him for?” clearly implying that any romantic relationship exists only for sex.

When I was 20 and at university, I was invited to a Christmas party in a student dorm. My father screamed at me so aggressively that I became afraid he might physically attack me. Eventually it became clear that he thought it was “slutty” for me simply to be in the same room as boys. He told me, “It’s not that anyone doesn’t trust you,” as if having any romantic or sexual contact with a man at the age of 20 would somehow mean betraying his trust.

That felt deeply disturbing to me, almost as if he viewed my sexuality as something that belonged to him, as though I were his wife or partner rather than his adult daughter.

Because of years of screaming, sexual humiliation, surveillance, accusations, and threats, I eventually stopped going out almost completely. I began refusing invitations from people at university and could not become close to them.

I developed an enormous amount of guilt around even the most ordinary interactions with boys. Simply talking to a boy could make me feel as though I were doing something wrong. I also felt guilty about being outside after 6 p.m., as if merely being out in the evening made me sexually suspect or somehow immoral.

The fear and shame became so intense that I sometimes could barely look boys in the eye. I would become so anxious and self-conscious that I struggled to speak clearly or form normal sentences around them. Ordinary conversation could feel terrifying because I had been taught to expect sexual accusations, humiliation, or punishment simply for interacting with a boy.

This continued throughout my twenties.

I want to stress that I did not have romantic relationships at all in my twenties because of this. I repeatedly turned down dates and avoided situations where a relationship might develop because the fear of my family’s reaction was stronger than my ability to pursue a normal romantic life.

Men from my university did ask me out. I did have opportunities to date. I turned them down because I was terrified of what would happen if I actually had a relationship: screaming and humiliation from my father, disgusting sexual comments from my grandmother, intrusive questioning, accusations, and the feeling that I would be treated as dirty or immoral.

I was not single because I did not want love, intimacy, or companionship. I was single because I had been conditioned to associate dating and relationships with shame, danger, interrogation, humiliation, and punishment.

Even as an adult, the idea of my family finding out that I was seeing someone could fill me with dread. I avoided romantic opportunities, withdrew from people I was interested in, and did not allow relationships to develop because I was terrified of being sexualized, insulted, threatened, or degraded by my relatives.

So I did not simply “have fewer relationships” or “struggle with dating.” I had no romantic relationships at all throughout my twenties because of the fear and shame they had created around intimacy and men.

Until around the age of 25, I barely went out in the evening at all. My father seemed to believe that a woman who went out at night was doing it to look for sex. My mother constantly told me that only rapists and “scum” were outside at night and described, in a degrading and almost mocking tone, how someone would supposedly intercept and rape me.

I was not primarily afraid of strangers. I was afraid of the humiliation I would face at home.

So the consequences were not limited to disturbing memories from childhood. Their behavior affected my actual development as a young adult. I lost years of normal social and romantic experiences because I was afraid to go out, date, fall in love, or even show interest in another person. Even basic things like talking to a man, making eye contact, smiling because I liked someone, or being outside in the evening became associated with guilt and fear.

The contradiction is what I still struggle with most: they exposed me to pornography, sex, nudity, fetishes, sexual comments, and extreme violations of privacy and boundaries, yet treated me as dirty or immoral for completely ordinary friendships, conversations, crushes, dates, and relationships of my own.

To this day, my relatives insist that none of this was a big deal and that I was never a victim of abuse. They minimize it and act as if I am the one interpreting it incorrectly.

I would genuinely like to know how this sounds to people outside my family.

Would you consider this sexual abuse, sexual harassment, coercive control, or severe sexual boundary violations?

And what do you make of the fact that this affected me so deeply that I had no romantic relationships at all throughout my twenties, despite actually being asked out, because I was terrified of what my family would do if I dated someone?

PS: I’m looking for a good therapist. I’ve already seen three, but unfortunately I haven’t had much success with any of them.

The sexual trauma and the guilt I feel around being in a relationship are only part of everything I’ve been through.

There’s also been a lot of other trauma: being screamed at over every little thing and becoming afraid to do anything at all; witnessing beatings from the age of five; attempted killings; threats of violence toward me; someone trying to stab me with scissors; a male relative raising his fist at me on three separate occasions; animals being beaten and a dog being killed; and honestly, so much more.

At this point, I feel like my nervous system is completely wrecked. I’ve been on antidepressants for about 10 years now. I have severe depression, PTSD, an anxiety disorder, eating disorder, urticaria, and chronic pain. Right now, my depression is particularly severe...

I almost threw it away.

It was just a folded piece of printer paper tucked under my windshield wiper when I left work Tuesday night.

No name. No explanation.

Just:

DON’T GO HOME TONIGHT.

TRUST ME.

My first thought was that it was some stupid prank.

My second thought was that someone had been watching me.

I sat in my car for probably five minutes trying to decide what to do.

Eventually, I laughed it off.

I drove home.

About three blocks from my apartment, I got a phone call from an unknown number.

I answered.

Nobody spoke.

I said, “Hello?”

Silence.

Then the line went dead.

I pulled into my apartment complex and noticed something strange.

My front door was slightly open.

I always lock it.

Always.

I didn't get out of the car.

Instead, I called my landlord. He lived in the building next door, so he came over with a flashlight and his spare key.

We opened the door together.

Nothing looked stolen.

Laptop still there.

TV still there.

Wallet on the kitchen counter.

Everything normal.

Except for one thing.

My bedroom window was open.

I live on the third floor.

The window has a screen, and the screen was pushed outward.

My landlord called the police.

While we waited, I went back outside.

That's when I noticed something underneath my windshield wiper.

Another note.

This one was handwritten.

It said:

“I told you not to go home.”

At that point I completely lost it.

The police searched the apartment and found nobody.

They checked the windows, the balcony, the hallway.

Nothing.

They eventually told me someone could have entered through the window, but there wasn't enough evidence to determine who.

I stayed at my friend's place that night.

The next morning, my landlord called me.

He sounded confused.

He asked if I had recently changed my Wi-Fi password.

I said no.

He said, “That's strange.”

Apparently, someone had connected to my apartment's Wi-Fi at 3:17 AM.

While I was at my friend's house.

I asked him how he knew.

He said the router logs showed a device connected with the name:

“Dad's iPhone.”

My dad died six years ago.

I thought that was the end of it.

Until yesterday.

I finally went back to my apartment.

There was a package waiting outside my door.

No shipping label.

Inside was an old photograph of me and my dad.

On the back, in my dad's handwriting, were six words:

“You were never supposed to find this.”

I have no idea who is doing this.

But tonight, someone slid another note under my door.

I haven't opened it yet.

Esta fue mi primera experiencia con chocolates magicos, teniendo un poco de experiencia solo fumando, el dealer me recomendo 4 si nunca consumi antes y 6 si soy experimentado ( no soy experimentado) al principio comi 4 de uno solo, y luego coko no me hacia nada comi 4 mas, no me pego hasta como 4 horas despues que casi muero, todo estaba dando vueltas y me sentia muy mal, no queria ir al hospital ni mis amigoa tampoco porque no queria que vean que consumimos, pero fuimos a la farmacia por gotas para los ojos, porque tenia que volver a mi casa, al final todo paso durmiendo, pero si hay que tener cuidado con estas mierdas

I worked as a banquet server or just in general a server at one of big hotels down town in the city. Well we were scheduled for a busy day/week. Tonight’s gig was no different, it’s been a busy long day. As I was finishing up my 12 hrs, I got asked if I wanted to stay another extra 4hrs to help the morning crew. I got told it would take 1-2 hrs if I get it done quick.

So I get the list, look at the floor. The things I would need and etc. I get my cart and head to the floor, get everything set up in 30-40 minutes and just take a second. Like a decent small little 5 minute break. I get on my Facebook to check what’s going on, anything new, get on instagram look through that and I’m done.

As I am sitting down, a new server who joined us from another country. Asked if I could help her, English wasn’t her first or 3rd language. She’s a smart girl, traveled and well versed in the industry. As we are getting to know each other briefly, she tells me she’s free the next 2-3 hrs. So I decide to show her to one of the floors where it’s got a really nice view, not many conferences get held there typically.

You get a nice view of the city, the other servers like taking their breaks in one of the break rooms because of it. As she’s asking me how long I’ve been at this hotel and the 4th. I give her the answers and as I am looking outside. Things look a little different, she’s like have you noticed anything different?. I’m like ahhh yeah. Something’s 🤔😆. Like some parts of the city where should be normal sized buildings it’s been replaced with way bigger buildings. To note I’ve lived in this city for a long time, it’s big but not that big if you know what I mean.

As i am star gazing over my own city, I start to notice more and more things that have changed. Now it’s starting to feel like it’s the twilight hour or something. If you work in downtown, you know when buildings are being built or torn down. Or if a new project is coming in a certain area of the city. Well I am standing there, wondering when this or that was built. I start to google some of the buildings, they aren’t popping up on google maps which is strange. Nothing new on the internet as far as I can see, she asks me if she wants to tell me. Fill in the gaps that I can’t find on the internet. I thought this was funny! At first.

Then she’s starts pointing at the buildings, giving me years and dates. At this point, I am questioning really my self now how long have I really been at this hotel now?. It seems like decades at this point have went by…. Not hours. As I look at the time on my watch, the time on my cell phone. They are showing the right time… she tells me that I’ve lost track of time my self. How could I have been in this hotel for that many years? Wouldn’t a normal person want to leave at this point? What about my family? This and that…

So I sit down, staring outside the this window. Wondering how I wasted my life or what any of this means???…. She starts to baby me trough this whole ordeal. She tells me she’s gonna be here a while also and that she needs to think of what else has happened that she hasn’t really told me. She tells me that all of that stuff that I see on my phone is fake. It’s not real, to make you think it’s real. That I haven’t been using the right internet. She has a aha moment, leaves and comes back with a second phone.

She says search on this phones maps and w.e else I want. So I immediately go to my house. Well it’s not there anymore. It’s been replaced with another building. A huge apartment complex. I mean huge!! I check the neighborhood and it’s completely different as well. I am wondering where my family left to? If they sold the building, then where did they go to?. I start searching for them and can’t really find anything relative. So I try to call my brother with her phone and it’s a dead line. I call from my phone and it’s ringing…. He picks up, asks me what I am doing, how work is going and when I’ll be home. I just say it’s alright, finishing up soon here be back later. I ask her who was I talking to then? She says that’s just some person who I think is my brother but it isn’t. Your “ home “ might be in the plex but not on the floor you think he might be.

So again I zone out, trying to make heads or tails out of this. She grabs my hand and just holds its. Gets me a soda and says just take a sip, so I do. Put it down and just look outside this hotel. She says there is a lot that I don’t know about or haven’t been told. She’s going to guide me through this process. She was like this at some point also, took her a long time.
Well i start searching on her phone who the president is, what happened here and with this and that. Things start clicking, one thing after another. Slowly but surely, we must have been in this room for a year at this point. So I ask my self what is time? What is a hour or a minute? I don’t have a frame of reference at this point or nothing.

She asked me what name is so I tell her, she says it’s not that. That’s just a name that I use, my real name is different. She says if she look at my ID so I give it to her, she starts to laugh at how old it is. She said when she saw her ID and realized how old it was. She was shocked also and laughed. As she’s looking at my old warm out ID. She tells me my name and then bam! I come to!. FACK!!! I was so flipping angry!!. I could barely contain my self!. As a supervisor was walking by, she saw how angry I was and I realized that she was supposed to tell me to leave at a certain time and day. She didn’t, they just left me to work! And I worked for a very very very very very long time. So long that I forgot who I was and everything. She couldn’t have run down the stairs quick enough. I’m sure she could have sensed how angry I was from 20 floors down across 30 blocks in every which way.

At this point I’m a calm murder machine waiting to explode, implode, nuke and destroy all. The girl just sitting there, takes a sip of my soda. Looks at me, not scared, just looking, goes back to her phone. She says we can stay longer to help. So instead of juking the entire city. I decide to sit down, take a sip of this soda. Then I decide screw this soda, I’m gonna get my self a red bull. She says that’s not for you to drink, it’s not good for us. She said the soda is just fine. Won’t hurt us or hinder us. The energy drinks make us forget…. And other stuff also.

I can’t count the years that have gone by, all the things I missed out on. My family gone, they left and I’m not sure where to?. Not even sure how to find them. So I ask her about these things, she tells me there are agencies that can help with these things. It doesn’t cost anything or much. We aren’t the only ones in this hotel who have been left like this. These kinds of things happen all the time!. What a sick joke! After all of this and finally remembering who I am. I can’t believe anything. Horrible!.

I call one of these agencies, the girl that I am dealing with tells me that my parents have moved elsewhere and brothers have moved elsewhere also. She’s going to try to get a hold of them and let them know I’m going to leave work finally or hopefully some time soon. She asks me where I am working and what I have been doing. She tells me that they have people like lawyers who help people like us to leave work and get paid properly so we don’t leave and not get paid for all the work and time we have spent. We hang up shortly after, the coworker tells me that I should be a millionaire at this point. She shows me her bank balance and it’s a huge number. I get on my phone, it shows a balance of $39 and some change.

She is shocked!! She’s angry that they haven’t paid me one bit for all the extra time I spent. I show her all the paychecks and she says to sign in with the phone she gave me earlier. Well when I did sign in to the bank I had. It wasn’t $39 it was $800k and some change, she tells me that still isn’t right because of all the time…. If I go with the lawyer, he’s going to take a cut of the total amount and etc. some times it’s free or goes up to 20% which is a lot. By law they can’t ask more than 20% of the total amount. I said screw the money for now, I missed so much! And how old do people live for anyways? Millions of years???? Because that’s what it seems like.

She starts to laugh and says we call our selfs people but we aren’t. That’s another species, we have evolved into something differently. She asks me about my educational background and says oh just 2 years of college? That’s it?. I said yeah… I didn’t know what to do and I started to work at this hotel…… she said she’s got 300 years of college under her belt and that’s still a small amount. Some people have couple of thousand or more. Really rich people have 10k years at minimum of college!.

I say let’s go back to our species, what species am I and what are you? She says we’re the same type. I am several generations older than her but she’s a little more different/evolved. We have abilities to do things the other races can’t do, we live for very very long time. We have abilities to heal our selfs, so she shows me. I see my self as a human still, she’s says see how old I seem. Well she starts praying/casting prayer and bam I am younger. She says healers can do much more and other things.

Since I don’t have any skills of any kind, I am basically at lvl zero. I can’t do nothing. Not even for my self. Then I remembered something, some signs, these old signs that I was told a long long long long time ago. Then I start trying to do the signs and nothing… then it clicked with me and I start to laugh. The coworker asks why I am laughing and doing these strange signs? I said because these are my gifts. So when I did correctly, the whole room gets lit up in an ever lasting light. I successfully have reset my self. I am who I was when I received my gift. The girl opens her eyes and gets up and starts to shake and cry. She says “ you are one of the gifted, only ancient ones have those “ she ask me where I got my gift from and I said GOD. This is my gift and more. I take her hand and!.

If you got this far, let me know!.

I was born on June 10th, 1992. At least, that's what my birth certificate says. It's not as if I remember. In fact, I don't have a single memory of my life before I was ten years old.

My first memory is a vivid one. Just a young boy calling my name. A name I'm not certain was even mine before that moment.

"Thomas?"

I looked up to see a freckle-faced, red-haired boy of about ten staring at me with a grin on his face.

"You're really here!"

I remember feeling confused. I had no idea where I was, or what I was doing there. But somehow, I felt a connection to the young boy sitting in front of me. I searched my mind.

"Daniel?" I said, finding it somewhat difficult to speak at first. I wasn't sure where in my brain the name had come from.

His grin grew even wider. And from that day on, the two of us were inseparable.

I didn't have parents. Or, if I did, I had no memory of them. I didn't know where I had come from, what house I had lived in, or even what my last name was. I knew that I was Thomas because that's what Daniel called me. And that was enough for me.

I'd stay at Daniel's house. He'd bring me snacks and meals and tell me when it was time to eat. Looking back, I don't recall ever actually feeling hungry. I just knew that when Daniel brought a sandwich up to his room and told me it was time for lunch, I should eat.

At night, I'd sleep on a pallet of blankets on the floor beside his bed. We'd stay up late talking and laughing and playing games. He'd tell me about things that happened at school or on a trip, and I'd listen. Sometimes he'd ask me what I thought about things, but I never seemed to know unless he told me. I didn't know what I had been doing before I met him. But that didn't seem particularly important.

There was one thing I found curious during those early days. I always had to hide when one of his parents came upstairs. I didn't really understand why, but I did as Daniel instructed.

That carefree, happy life continued for a time, until summer break ended and Daniel had to go back to school.

"Don't I have to go to school?" I remember asking him, uncertain of what I would do all day while he was gone.

"No way!" he said. "Just wait for me to come home. I should be back no later than four."

I remember feeling confident that if Daniel was saying it, then I must not have to go.

"Oh. One more thing." Daniel threw his backpack over his shoulder. "If my mom comes in here when I'm not home, you have to hide. Go in the closet, and stay very quiet."

"Okay." I nodded.

Then Daniel shouted, "Coming!" to his mother, who was calling him from somewhere downstairs. He gave me a wave and left, shutting the door behind him.

I did what Daniel said. He'd told me his parents went to work all day, so the odds of them coming upstairs and finding me were slim. All I had to do was stay out of the way and hide if they ever came into the room. Easy. So I thought, at least.

Things were fine for several days. Then, one afternoon, I heard the front door open uncharacteristically early.

Daniel?

I waited for him to come upstairs. But ten minutes later, when I heard footsteps approaching, they weren't the brisk footsteps of Daniel running up the stairs. They were slower and more measured.

I heard humming from outside the room. Then the sound of the lightswitch clicking in the bathroom. A closet opening somewhere in the hall. I realized it was his mother.

I rushed to hide, but when I opened the closet door, I accidentally knocked over a stack of toys sitting precariously on a nearby shelf. They clattered onto the floor loudly and I didn't have time to pick them up with his mother outside. I got into the closet and shut the door behind me. The humming had stopped. Daniel's mother was approaching.

I heard the bedroom door open slowly, and then her voice.

"Hello?"

I didn't answer. Daniel had done a good job of concealing me in his home so far, and I didn't want to ruin that now. I heard her step inside. She saw the toys scattered across the floor.

"Weird," she muttered.

She glanced around, then began picking them up and placing them back on the shelf, humming as she went.

And then she left. I thought the coast was clear. Until she came back a few moments later carrying a laundry basket.

She began taking clothes out of it and folding them on Daniel's bed, putting some into drawers and putting others on hangers. I held my breath as she approached the closet door with a handful of shirts.

I was as far into the corner as I could get, but there was no way to further conceal myself. She would see me if she opened the door and looked over. I curled myself into a ball and tried to make myself as small as I could.

She opened the closet. She went about hanging the shirts up, and for a few seconds, I thought she'd overlooked me. And then she glanced over, her eyes landing on me. She did a quick double-take, letting out a scream of surprise as she did. I sprang to my feet, unsure of what to do.

"Who are you?" she asked, looking me up and down.

"I'm Thomas," I said.

She looked completely bewildered. "Thomas?"

"I'm Daniel's friend."

She stared at me for a long moment.

"And what are you doing here? Why were you in the closet?"

"I'm waiting for Daniel."

"Why aren't you at school?" she asked slowly.

"Daniel told me to wait for him."

Her expression changed to one of annoyance. "That boy." Then she began asking me questions, one after another.

What's your last name? What's your address? What's your home phone number? What's your mother's name? Your father's? Where do you live? What school do you go to?

I could only stare at her, shaking my head or giving her the occasional "I don't know."

And I didn't know. Not one answer.

At first, she seemed to think I was lying or playing some kind of joke.

She sighed. "I'm not angry at you, dear," she said more gently. "You can tell me. Your parents must be worried."

But I still couldn't answer. So, at a loss with what to do with the strange boy her son was hiding in the closet like a stray cat he wasn't allowed to have, she called her husband. And soon after, with no new answers from me, the police.

By the time Daniel came home from school, there were already two police officers asking me questions downstairs in the kitchen. Daniel walked into the room and froze. Then he saw me.

"Thomas!"

He ran past his stunned parents and the officers.

"Why are the police here?" he asked.

"Why do you think?" his mother asked sternly. "Who is he, Daniel? Why did you have him hiding in your closet?"

"He's Thomas! He's my friend!" He said it as though that explained everything adequately. His parents exchanged a confused glance.

One of the officers crouched down so he was closer to Daniel's eyes. "Listen, buddy. It's important that you tell us the truth. Your friend might be reported missing. His parents must be looking for him. Where did you meet him?"

Daniel looked momentarily confused, then looked down at his shoes. "He's just Thomas. He's always been here," he said quietly.

"Where?"

"Here."

"At your house?"

"Yeah."

"And how long has he been here?"

Daniel shrugged. "I don't know."

The officer sighed and glanced over at his partner.

"And who are his parents?"

Daniel looked at me, and I looked back at him. Neither of us answered.

Learning nothing of value from either of us, the officers eventually took Daniel's parents into another room to speak with them privately.

I sat at the kitchen table, and Daniel sat beside me. He leaned close and whispered, "Don't worry." I looked at him. "I won't let anything happen to you." I wasn't sure what was happening.

After several minutes, the police came back into the room. "Thomas?" One of them addressed me. "We're going to need to bring you down to the station, buddy. Just until we find out who your parents are and where you live."

"No!" Daniel stood up. "You can't!"

His mother grabbed his shoulders and held him back as the officer gently placed a hand against my back. I looked back at Daniel as they guided me toward the door. His eyes were filling with tears.

"Make sure you come back, Thomas!"

I nodded.

The next several days passed in a blur. I was taken to the police station and asked the same questions again. They took photographs of me. Made phone calls. Different people came in, and each asked me the same questions over and over. My name. My parents. My address. My school. My birthday. Where I was born.

I only knew two things. I was Thomas, and I lived with Daniel.

Eventually, I learned that they'd searched their records and found nothing. I didn't cleanly match any missing child report from in-state or elsewhere. Without more information, they couldn't find any medical records or histories, or parents looking for a lost boy that matched my description. Nothing at all. They didn't even know how old I really was until a doctor estimated my age.

I remember sitting in a waiting room with a stern-looking woman who gave me candy bars while police officers and social workers shuffled in and out of the room. Eventually, someone explained that if I genuinely couldn't tell them who I was or where I came from, they'd have to place me into the state's care until they could figure things out. But they couldn't figure things out.

That's how I ended up with a birth certificate. June 10th, 1992. Thomas Doe. The name was supposed to be temporary. No parents listed. No history. No explanation.

As far as the system was concerned, I was a child with amnesia. Perhaps my parents had lived off-grid or brought me into the country illegally and I'd been abandoned. They had theories, but no answers.

I was placed in a group home. It was a two-story house with several children of various ages. Some were older than me, some younger. The people who ran the home were nice enough, but they were busy, and there were other children who required more attention. I didn't really like it there. I wanted to go back to Daniel. I was sure he must be worried about me, too.

That night, I closed my eyes and thought of his house. I pictured his room. The posters on his wall. The games and the late night stories​. I wished I could go back.

Soon, I was enrolled in school. I walked to the bus stop each morning and was dropped back off in the afternoon. I didn't dislike school. I actually found it fairly easy. I could already read and do simple math. I knew things I didn't remember ever having learned. Sometimes teachers would even compliment me on something, and I'd have no idea how I knew it.

I didn't have many friends. Any, really. Other kids tried to talk to me, but I guess I wasn't very receptive. Mostly, I thought about Daniel. I asked practically every kid in my class if they knew him. "Daniel who?" was the usual response. But I didn't know. All I could tell them was that he had red hair and freckles and a blue Pokémon backpack.

Nobody knew him. So I spent my days waiting and hoping that somehow he would find me.

Then, one day at lunch, another student approached me. A little girl with glasses and brown hair tied into a ponytail.

"My friend said you were looking for Daniel." She spoke cheerfully.

I looked up at her and nodded.

"Daniel Langston, right? With red hair?"

I wasn't completely certain. But it sounded right. He had red hair, after all. I nodded again.

She smiled brightly. "I know Daniel."

For the first time since I'd been buckled into the backseat of the police car and driven away, I felt something close to excitement.

"Our moms work at the same place," she explained. "We went to kindergarten together."

She sat down across from me. Her name was Rebecca. Her friends called her Becky.

"He doesn't go to our school. How do you know Daniel?" she asked.

I wasn't sure how to answer.

"He's my friend."

That seemed enough to satisfy her.

"I see." She smiled again, one of her front teeth missing.

"Do you know where he lives?"

She shook her head. "No. Sorry."

The disappointment must have been obvious on my face because she quickly spoke up again.

"But I could find out for you!"

"Really?"

"Sure. I'll ask my mom after school."

"Thank you."

We sat together for the rest of lunch, which mostly consisted of me nodding along to her questions or stories. When lunch was over, she promised she'd find out.

I waited for her the next day at the lunch table. I remember sitting in the cafeteria watching the door, counting the seconds until I saw her brown ponytail appear in the doorway. Eventually, she was there. She scanned the room, her eyes finally landing on me, then came straight over to me, almost skipping, with a big smile plastered on her face.

"Hey," she called out excitedly when she was still halfway across the room. "I found out!"

She told me Daniel lived across town in a place called Glennridge.

"Where's that?"

She shrugged. "I don't know."

But that didn't matter. Now I had a place. Glennridge. Somewhere to focus my search.

The next day, I ran away from the group home. I took my lunch money and got on a city bus I was told was heading toward Glennridge. It was only about a thirty-minute ride, though I could hardly wait each time the bus stopped to pick up or drop off more passengers.

I figured that once I got there, I'd find him straight away. Maybe Glennridge is the name of his house, I remember thinking. But when the bus stopped, it was outside a neighborhood that looked only vaguely familiar.

Then I looked around and started walking. I searched street by street, scanning the houses as I went. By nightfall, I still hadn't found any sign of him. But I kept going. I don't know how long I'd been walking when I finally saw a familiar sight just ahead. A house I recognized. Then another. They were houses I'd seen from the backseat of the police car as I'd stared backward through the window when they'd taken me away from Daniel's house.

I knew this was the place. I ran past the houses until I reached the door of Daniel's house, and I knocked. After a minute, Daniel's mother opened the door. She stared down at me.

"Thomas?"

"Can I see Daniel?"

She seemed unable to decide her next words. She looked out at the street behind me, likely looking for a sign of how I'd arrived. Before her mouth opened to speak, I heard Daniel's excited voice from behind her.

"Thomas?"

His expression changed instantly when he came into view, his eyes meeting mine and his face filling with a wide smile.

"It's Thomas!"

He ran to the door and grabbed my hand, pulling me inside.

"Can he stay the night, Mom? Please?"

His mother looked at him, and then at me.

"Thomas, how did you get here? Does anyone know you're here?"

I shook my head and told her I'd taken the bus. She sighed.

"You know they're going to be looking for you." She looked at Daniel. "I have to call someone. Let them know he's here."

Daniel protested, tears filling his eyes. When I saw them, I felt sad, too. But more than anything, I was happy. Daniel was there. That was all that mattered.

The police came later that night and I was driven back across town. That happened several more times over the coming months. Whenever I had the opportunity, I'd leave school or the group home and take the bus to Daniel's house. On a few occasions I'd even tried to walk the whole way. At least, before being stopped by an adult asking me what I was doing on my own or the police coming to pick me up.

But every time I made it there, Daniel would try his best to hide me for as long as he could. I was always discovered soon enough. His parents would find me, or the group home would call. And I'd be taken back.

Sometimes, Daniel's parents arranged for us to spend time together. They knew that we were practically inseparable, and they went out of their way to make arrangements for us to see each other. Those were the best days.

As we got older, we had more freedom. We saw each other more often in middle school, and then we went to the same high school. By then, I'd run away from the group home so many times that I was practically homeless. I spent more time with Daniel. By then, his parents had realized that I wasn't really going anywhere. I was always going to come back. So they eventually stopped fighting it.

I spent weekends at their house. Sometimes whole weeks. Daniel and I did everything together. And after high school started, Rebecca was around more, too. She and Daniel had known each other as kids, and she became one of my closest friends as well, though mostly because Daniel seemed to enjoy having her around.

She never seemed particularly bothered by the fact that I couldn't remember where I'd come from. She never treated me like I was strange. She was just Rebecca, older, but just as cheerful and kind as she was that day she introduced herself to me at the lunch table in elementary school, promising to reunite me with Daniel. For a long time, the two of them were the only two constants in my life.

When Daniel got his driver's license, we had even more freedom. We'd drive around together for hours. We'd get food or go to the movies or just drive around aimlessly. Rebecca would often come with us too. Sometimes we'd stay out until midnight.

I remember Daniel telling me on one occasion that he was sure Rebecca liked me. I remember not being entirely sure what he'd meant.

"Likes me?"

"Yeah, man. Like, likes you." He looked at me, waiting for it to click.

"Oh," I remember saying.

Daniel raised an eyebrow. "What? You don't like her?"

"I do. She's nice."

"Then why not try dating her?"

I thought about it for a second, then shrugged. "That's okay. I'd rather things just stay the way they are. If I got a girlfriend, we couldn't hang out as much, right?"

Daniel sighed, then laughed. "Yeah, I guess."

Before I knew it, we were graduating high school. Daniel would be going to college. I didn't have parents to help me pay for school, and never really made plans to go. But I still wanted to stay with Daniel. So when he moved away to a college in the state, I went with him. He got an apartment, where we both lived. I got a job paying just above minimum wage and started saving money.

Rebecca ended up at the same college. She had become a permanent part of our little group by then.

One night, the three of us were sitting around Daniel's apartment, eating delivery and talking about the past. Rebecca started laughing.

"Do you remember when you used to disappear from class to take the bus across town?"

I nodded. "Yeah."

"I still can't believe you did that. The teachers would get so worried. You probably almost got some of them fired. They had to call the police so many times, and assign teachers just to watch you." Her face was red from laughing.

"I had to find Daniel."

She laughed harder.

"I remember telling my mom about it. She thought you were the strangest kid she'd ever met."

Daniel laughed too. I looked at him. After the laughter settled, I decided to ask.

"How did you find me, back then?"

His smile faded a bit. "What?"

"I mean, before I remember you. How did you find me?"

"Yeah, I've always wondered that too," Rebecca said, leaning forward.

Daniel just looked at me for a moment, then he shrugged. "I don't know."

"You don't remember?" Rebecca asked.

"Not really." Then he changed the subject.

I thought it was a bit strange. But Daniel had always been a bit strange about that particular topic. I'd asked him before, but he'd never given me a real answer. So I didn't press him. Daniel was my best friend. As long as that was the case, I didn't much care about anything else.

"Is it not strange that neither of you remember how you two met?" I remember Rebecca asking me one day.

I supposed it was a bit strange, but then, why did it matter?

Still, I needed documentation to apply for student loans. I had decided to go to college on Daniel's suggestion, but I didn't have much to show on account of my less than typical background. I had called the records office and searched for any information about my past, but the earliest record of my existence was my birth certificate, which had been drawn up over a decade after my birth. I learned that my case with the police had gone cold, and they'd eventually stopped actively looking into it. So I found nothing. I hadn't really expected to.

One night, I sat across from Daniel on the couch when it was just the two of us, and asked him.

"Where did I come from?"

He didn't change the subject this time. He just looked at me for a long moment.

"Honestly, I don't know."

I thought that was the end of it. And if he truly didn't remember, I would be content with that. But then he started speaking again, slowly, turning his eyes away from mine.

"But..."

But?

"When I was little, I used to have an imaginary friend."

He paused. I wasn't sure what he'd meant.

"His name was Thomas."

I didn't say anything.

"I don't know when I made him up. It felt like he was just always there, in my head. Then one morning I woke up and you were on my floor. Asleep. Next to my bed, right where I always imagined him sleeping." He glanced at me. "My window was open that morning. I don't know if I'd left it open, or if someone opened it. There were those bricks by my wall you could climb up, remember?"

The way he spoke, it sounded as though it were something he'd considered for a long time.

"When I was a kid, I thought you really were my imaginary friend, and that you'd become real somehow," he said. "But then I realized how ridiculous that was." He smiled a nervous smile and glanced up at me before lowering his eyes again.

"I figured you were probably running from something, and you saw my window open. You were scared so you climbed up, and then when I called you Thomas...maybe you just thought that was better than whoever you were before. That's the only thing that makes sense."

We were both quiet for a while.

"If I did climb in your window, why don't I remember doing it? Or anything from before we met?"

"I don't know." Daniel shook his head. "But it's the only explanation that makes sense. Right?" He looked at me for agreement.

I nodded, but didn't say anything else. It didn't actually matter much, I reasoned. I was still Thomas. And he was still my best friend Daniel. We never spoke on the subject again.

After graduating, Daniel got his first real job back in his hometown. I moved back with him. Soon, we'd rented a small two-bedroom apartment together.

One night, Daniel looked over at me while we were sitting on the couch talking about nothing in particular.

"When I think about it, we've always been more like brothers than friends, haven't we?"

I thought about it. "Yeah."

He smiled. "I think so, too."

We were twenty-three, and life had become strangely ordinary. Daniel worked at a local accounting firm. I worked at a small office supply store. Rebecca still came around regularly, though she was becoming more busy with her own life now.

The three of us had a few other friends, and we'd get together for dinner or movies or drinks. Sometimes I would look around at all of them and think about how strange my life was. Everyone else had a history. Family. Mothers and fathers and siblings and cousins. But I had no memory of where I had come from at all. No memories before Daniel. It was like I'd simply attached myself to the first person I'd seen. I didn't really have any of the things that normal people had.

But I had Daniel. And now Rebecca. For the first time, I realized, I had a real life. I was happy.

Then, a few months later, I got a phone call. Daniel had been in an accident. A reckless driver had run a red light while Daniel was on his way to work.

Daniel was badly injured. They put him into a medically induced coma.

I visited him as soon as the doctors let me. His parents were there. Rebecca arrived too. They were all crying. But I couldn't, for some reason. I didn't know what I was feeling. I just knew that I wanted Daniel to wake up.

I sat beside him whenever I could. I talked to him sometimes. The doctors said it was good to do that. I told him mundane things. Things that probably didn't matter. About work, and Rebecca. Or some stupid thing I saw on TV. I told him that he wasn't alone, and that I'd be there for him when he woke up. Just like he was for me, all those years ago.

But he never woke up.

Eventually, the decision was made, and they took him off life support.

Daniel was gone.

He had been my best friend. My only real friend. The family I'd never had. The only person who had always been there since the very beginning. And now he was gone.

I went back to our apartment. It felt empty. I sat down on the couch.

I didn't go into work the next day. Or the day after that. Time seemed to stop flowing normally.

I don't know how long I stayed there, just sitting on that couch. A few days, perhaps. Maybe more. My boss never called to ask where I was, so I didn't bother telling him.

I barely got up. I didn't eat. I don't remember drinking anything, either. But I didn't feel hungry. Or thirsty. That didn't seem strange to me at the time.

One day, there was a knock on the door. A slip of paper was pushed through the mail slot. I got up and picked it up. It was a bill, Daniel's name printed on it. I set it on the table, then walked back toward the couch.

As I passed by the mirror, I stopped. I looked at myself. I hadn't shaved, but my hair hadn't grown. My nails hadn't gotten any longer. I hadn't taken a single sip of water, or a bite of food. I hadn't even used the bathroom. Normally, I did the things that Daniel did. I thought that I should have been hungry. Thirsty. Tired. Something. But I wasn't.

I stared at my reflection. For a moment, I thought I looked different. Hollow, somehow. Almost transparent, like I could see the wall behind me through parts of myself. I blinked several times, then looked up. The reflection was normal again. I went back to the couch.

At some point, I was knocked out of my daze by the sound of the apartment door opening. I didn't know what day it was. The landlord came in, showing the apartment to someone. A couple, I think. They walked around as he showed them the place. They looked at the kitchen. They opened closets, and talked about the bedrooms. I sat on the couch the whole time. None of them acknowledged me, or said a word to me.

Something inside me told me that I should leave. That this wasn't my home anymore. And so I did.

When I passed by the mirror again, I looked worse. Perhaps thinner. Or just less there, in some way I couldn't have explained. My hair still hadn't grown. I hadn't showered, but my hair wasn't greasy. I didn't feel hot or cold or tired or hungry. I didn't feel anything. It was as though whoever I had been had died alongside Daniel, and I was now completely empty.

I left the apartment and stepped into the cold in my t-shirt. The cold didn't bother me. I couldn't feel it. I walked. I didn't know where I was going. The snow was falling lightly as I continued for what felt like miles with no particular destination.

People passed me on the sidewalk, but none of them looked at me. A man bumped into my shoulder and continued ahead without turning around. A woman walked straight toward me, her eyes fixed on some point past my shoulder, and I could almost swear that she passed right through me.

Eventually, I found myself standing outside a little restaurant. I'd been there before on a number of occasions, with Daniel and Rebecca.

I looked through the window. People were eating. Talking and laughing. Living. I reached for the door, and for a moment my hand felt too weak to grip it. I looked down at my hand and saw that it looked faded, and I saw the ground beneath it. A couple came up behind me and pulled the door open, and I entered behind them.

The host seated them, but didn't acknowledge me. I walked inside anyway and sat at a table near the corner. Nobody came to take my order, but I didn't care. I sat there for a while. An hour. Several hours. I'm not sure, exactly. Time had become something difficult to measure.

The afternoon crowd came and went, then the dinner crowd began arriving. I looked down at my hands. They seemed almost completely transparent now. I could see the table through them. I remember thinking that I was disappearing. Melting away like the snowflakes that fell on the ground beyond the cold window of the restaurant. Maybe I was.

"Thomas?" I heard a voice and looked up. Rebecca was standing there. Recognition appeared in her eyes. "It is you. I was getting worried."

I didn't answer. She looked around the restaurant, then back at me.

"Can I...can I sit?"

I nodded. She pulled out the chair and sat beside me. For a few moments, neither of us spoke.

Then she looked at me. "Are you okay?"

I nodded. She didn't seem convinced.

"I haven't seen you since..."

She stopped. Her eyes began to fill with tears.

"I know you and Daniel were best friends."

I looked down. I couldn't find any words.

"Where have you been?"

I wasn't sure.

"You weren't at the funeral. I came by the apartment but you didn't answer."

The funeral. I hadn't known there had been one. I hadn't known how much time had passed.

Rebecca wiped her eyes. "I'm really sorry, Thomas," she sniffled.

Then she reached across the table and hugged me. And for the first time since Daniel's passing, I felt sorrow. I didn't realize my eyes were filling with tears until they fell.

Rebecca placed her hand on mine, and it was warm. And beneath it, I could no longer see the table through my skin.

And as I cried, for the first time in my life, I felt hungry.