It turns out, the longer you stay away, the harder it is to come back. Even a (momentarily) forgotten password.
It turns out, radio silence isn't silent. The clawing static is deafening. At first you think of ways to quiet the din, but later it becomes a type of white noise you shout over, never noticing your rising voice, the hints of hysteria.
It turns out, thirty-eight is a quiet birthday. A birthday blanketed in white snow and ice crystals.
It turns out, even at thirty-eight, that damn chocolate cake is still cursed --- this time it's a double dose of salt. Cake was salvaged.... but ocean-y.
It turns out, that cake is the only thing that makes you curse.
It turns out, you miss this creamy space something fierce. The people in it, especially.
