Humans adapt. That’s what we do. And when you’re removed from everything you’re comfortable with and thrown into a situation for a month where nothing is known to you, your adaptability goes into hyper drive. Your appetite slows down, you’re less nervous around new people, and you form the type of bonds that are usually only seen in family settings. You forge a family. Because if you’re going to survive, you’re going to need friends to hold you up and to hide behind. You’re going to need a family, of sorts.
So you do that. You find your family and you cry to them and tell them things you can’t even tell yourself but then they’re gone. Or you’re gone. Well you’re all gone and you’re back to where you’re supposed to be comfortable. But you don’t quite fit anymore. Now you’re too big for the space you used to take up here. And you can’t explain it to anyone cause you’re afraid they’ll shrink you down again, so you talk to your forged family in texts and messages to what might as well be a different country, and they continue to be your mirror.
In them you are as big as the sun.
But it starts to get to you. Because you’re talking to them but you can’t picture them. You can’t imagine their lives. You know how her body feels like someone else’s because it grew too damn fast, but not what her school looks like. You know where he wants to be in fifty years, but couldn’t find his hometown on a map because you were too busy holding his hand and playing cards to ask him where he stood before it was next to you. You don’t know who they talk to when they wake up in the morning or where they buy their groceries, but you know the things they will never do and what they would give up everything for. And you know that this is better, that it’s what matters in the end, but you are not at the end. That is an end where you are all together – an impossible end. And so you stop telling them everything, and they move farther and farther away because life has magnets at every pole.
You lose your family, and you start to shrink again.