Angelaboutme

Lena opened her eyes. “I don’t have a death wish.”

At twenty-six, Lena was a freelance graphic designer working out of a cramped studio apartment in Portland. She had no pets, no plants, no relationships that lasted longer than three months. Her phone contained exactly forty-seven contacts, most of them clients. She paid her bills on time, ran four miles every morning, and never—not once—allowed herself to cry. angelaboutme

She was seven years old, sitting on the cold linoleum floor of a county hospital hallway, watching a social worker’s lips move without hearing a single word. Her father had left three months earlier—just walked out of their cramped apartment with a duffel bag and a promise to “get some milk.” The milk never came. The angels her grandmother used to sing about, the ones who “watched over little girls with golden hair,” never came either. By the time Lena turned eight, she had decided that angels were just a bedtime story for children too fragile to face the truth: you are alone, and no one is coming to save you. Lena opened her eyes

Margo was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice was different—less chirpy, more gentle. “I know. I was there. I sat on the fire escape outside your bedroom window every night for six months after he left, just in case you decided to climb out. You almost did, twice. Do you remember?” Her phone contained exactly forty-seven contacts, most of