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She doesn’t mind talking about it. After all, it’s been three years since. In mixed context, they make jokes and say, Too soon? in jest, with smiles. I’m the only one who thinks it still is. I wonder if ever it will be otherwise. If ever Late enough.

I hate to narrate the day. Loathe the way we lean over the details. When we remember and rehearse the hours before and after she didn’t die. I hate my mind’s rememberlessness of every moment. I’m angry at the slices of time wedged in the in-betweens, the pieces of chaos pasted haphazardly brainward.

I’m selfish, too, lost in shame that I couldn’t be the savior of the story. That it wasn’t me who found her obsessively cleaning, drunk on drugs; me who drove her to safety, soaking in every warbled word; me with reams of wisdom, righting all wrongs past. She’s better now. It’s fine. She’s my friend, still. She’s alive.

But they don’t mind talking about it. And I’m stuck in Too soon.