You visited me while I was picking out tomatoes at the grocery store, and again at the bank.
I didn’t want to see you, but there you were—tall, dark, and hovering over me.
You looked at me with cold, lifeless eyes, and I began to feel numb.
I said hello, briefly, and then left in a hurry.
I hoped you wouldn’t follow me.
I then went to get coffee so I could enjoy a moment of warmth without you, but you soon greeted me at the bottom of my cup.
“Hello, Rebecca,” you said.
I tossed you away quickly and kept speeding, trying to outrun you.
This didn’t work, so I headed home.
When I entered my room, I sat on my bed and listened to the humming of the fan before closing my eyes and imagining evergreen trees and the cool breeze of home.
You were nowhere to be seen, and my heart calmed.
I stayed here for a long time, imagining raindrops hitting the roof and the smell of coffee brewing.
After some time passed, I opened my eyes and began to cry.
You were standing over me, and I couldn’t escape.
You had me.
You seem to greet me daily here in California. No matter where I go here, I can’t seem to outrun you.
I used to believe home is wherever I am, but lately, I’m realizing my home is in the Pacific Northwest.
I think I’ll close my eyes again tonight and pretend I’m there.
I hope it rains and you don’t visit me.
If I do see you, I may have to say hello.
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