Inspiration:

When she was nineteen, she spent an hour and eight minutes looking at a blank piece of paper. During that time, her phone rang twice. If she hadn't looked up in the following two minutes, her roommate would have spent thirty-four seconds building up the courage to tap her shoulder.

Interaction:

In kindergarten, she was asked to share a word with the class that started with an S. She wouldn't go to the front of the room or even stand up, but instead wound her ring finger around a loose thread in her corduroy pocket and whispered, “Stradivarius.”

Family:

When her mother died, they found a shoebox in her closet full of unopened and untouched valentines.

3 a.m.:

The night before Christmas, I wake up to see her leaning on our bedroom window frame looking out the window. Her sliver reflection is ghostly. “Hurry up, will you?” she says to the moon, her impatient words melting shapes into the cold glass.

Escape:

During lunch, when everyone else was eating in the cafeteria, she would sneak into the vacant library and slide the heaviest book she could find onto her stomach as she lay on the floor. With each breath, she felt herself inflating underneath it. She was afraid of breathing too deeply without a heavy book to keep her from floating away.

Anger:

Before he left, her father gave her a Bible. There's a long letter he wrote to her on the cover page, but she doesn't know its there because she's never opened it.

Finale:

She doesn't know it yet, but the last thing she will remember having seen before she dies is a red-checkered tablecloth.