hanna snowspire, ten.

Five, I always think I'm being sneaky when I slip away from the group to go and find Ms. Munroe. Farah notices every time, but so far she's never ratted me out to our classmates as long as I make her feel like it's our little secret whenever I go. I just give her a little smile and raise a finger to my lips if our eyes meet as I go to find a private moment with our guidance counselor.

Even as a child, I find it hard to let others see when I am in want of comfort.

Winking at Farah to make her feel special was something I got from Ms. Dragomir, remember how my own chest swelled with pride feeling like I was in on something the rest of the world wasn't. My purpose in this world was to keep her secret safe.

"Between you and me, Darling," she'd said with a wink as she lit her cigarette in the middle of our session.

So I mimic the movement when Farah catches me, and feel my belly flutter when she does what I want and keeps her mouth shut. 

I discovered Ms. Munroe's photo albums when I was little, too curious for my own good, wandering around her homey little office while we were meant to be having a meeting. My hands had been willing to reach for anything at my height and it was her own fault for keeping them on a bottom shelf in the corner. As I get older I start to think she has them there for prying hands on purpose, wants to let kids use them to find purchase on their own memories.

"When do you think my family will find me?" I ask her every time, eyes wide and earnest. Even at five years old I am too aware of how my voice shakes, can hear the desperation in my own voice.

"Keep working on your talents, dear," she'd reply, tone to match. I can remember the tilt of her head, can remember feeling flayed at the idea of not being good enough. "The right family is going to love you."

I would curl up in a little ball on her floor, sit in the quiet corner she made for us in there and flip through the pages of old albums. I liked to trace the lines of adopted kids faces, people I'd never met who managed to find their place in the world. I would imagine where they might have ended up, fill in the gaps with stories from one of the books the adults read us before bedtime on happy occasion.

I pictured myself in their place, envisioned myself wrapped up warm and safe in the arms of a woman who loved me and called me her own. In all my dreams, I am radiant, the center of her world.

I'm hers. She's home.

Eleven, I like the way that Alain looks at me, like there's something inside of me that makes him think harder. It makes me grin the first time he asks me to stand in front of his camera, and I spend forty minutes in the bathroom getting the bow in my hair to sit just right.

He told me it didn't suit the character he had envisioned when I walked out, but I'd crossed my arms over my chest and just stared at him until he rolled his eyes and relented. He never gives in for anybody, but he knew better than to put his foot down with me. Then a few weeks later he kissed me and it was alright, but I spent most of the time thinking about technique. It felt nice to be wanted though.

Then I'd open my eyes, and it'd be Alain, and I'd scrunch my nose. His pores always ruined my mood.

Seventeen, and I can't get my shoulders to relax.

I press my knuckles into my tired eyes until I can feel the blood pumping behind them, little flashes of magenta creeping across my vision, obscuring the darkness of closed eyes. They shift from my eyes upward over my brows, phalange bones kneading the skin there as I pull at my body, tug the skin at my temples backward into my hairline. The weight of the cello rests between my legs, neck pressing into my left collarbone. When I tip my head, I rest my jaw on the fingerboard and don't think about the marks the strings are going to leave behind, indents pressed into my skin.

Most of the time, I'm glad that I have my own sleeping quarters. We share so much of our lives with each other, if I didn't have at least one space that I had control over, well, I think I'd put a curling iron to Brontë's cheek if I ever had to share a room with her. That's just coming from a place of honesty.

But still, I never feel less myself than when I am alone.

I rub my calloused fingers over themselves, lean back in my chair and try to fix the shitty posture that playing the cello has been giving me lately. It's like I have to make a conscious decision to straighten out my spine, have to crack my neck and roll my shoulders to find the spot that's comfortable to rest. It made going back to the piano harder. It's easier to reach all the keys if I keep my spine straight.

It's like I'm working against myself here.

The middle of the night stares back at my through the window along the southern wall. Usually the expanse of snow is visible even at nighttime, frozen crystals reflecting light reflected by the moon. Endless refractions, I hate how accusing they feel looking back at me. The clock on my night stand reads 2:17 in the morning and I know that I should go to sleep, but I tried that a few hours ago and just laid there thinking about the pizzicato I still can't get right. I flex my hand again thinking about it, and have to swallow before sighing and pushing the instrument away from me, leaning it against the wall.

I should put it away properly, tuck it away in its case, but I just mentally add that to the list of things to do when I wake up instead and wander out into the hallway. I pretend not to look at the scatterings of clean clothes all over my floor, evidence of my inability to choose an outfit on the first try. I patter across the hard wood as quietly as I can, but I stopped being bashful about not sleeping much a long time ago. Kim says it's fine as long as I feel rested and am getting at least six hours. I'm not sure where she got that number, but I lie to her and tell her yes, absolutely, almost always at least six.

Almost always means once or twice a week, but so far no one has snitched, or no one has noticed, and I'm content either way.

I'm parched. I want to go and get a glass of water from the tap. If someone wanders out and asks what the hell I'm doing awake at two in the morning, I'll turn it around and gently put their ass back in bed and remind them how easy it is for me to take care of them, then I'll go about my business as I please.

I’ll pass out in an hour or two, get rumpled by a sleep cycle or so, then do it again tomorrow. Who’s going to stop me?