Christmas is over. I flew back to Toronto yesterday. I fell asleep at 10PM but was awoken a couple of hours later by noise outside. I opened my window, letting the cool air in, and looked toward the skyline. Fireworks exploded by the CN Tower, lit bright. I crawled out of my window, onto the flat roof. My breath was visible in the cold night.
I’m still not used to the stars being invisible, unable to compete against the ever-on lights of the city. There are no trees in sight, the lake is blocked by the tall edifices of the financial district. All I see are bank logos and, tonight, fireworks bursting in the distance. It’s 2026. A new year.
In the morning, I yawn, stretch, and get out of bed. After making a cup of coffee, I sit down at my desk and open my laptop. I realize the term hasn’t started yet; there are no assignments for me to start or reading for me to catch up on. A little burst of panic tingles the back of my mind as I stare at the blank screen.
Hesitantly, I type in Kai.ai into my browser. During the holidays, my sister had gone on and on about how great Kai is, how it had become her personal therapist. I link my email address to the site and Kai welcomes me. What’s on your mind, Zoe?
I start typing. I explain what happened during Christmas. Going back to my mom’s house out West. Getting yelled at for eating grapes. Hearing annoyed grunts when I left the dirty pan in the sink while eating. The loud sighs when I forgot to turn off the light. The anxiety while leaving the house, trying to remember whether he liked me to keep it locked or unlocked. The stress when we had guests over, how he would suddenly start ferociously cleaning the house, mad at us all for being in his way. The desire to disappear, so I wouldn’t always be a complication, an annoyance.
A little ball spins, then an answer is generated. “Zoe, that sounds really painful—and exhausting. You're describing a home environment where you're constantly walking on eggshells, trying to anticipate what will upset him next, and internalizing the message that your presence itself is a problem. That kind of ongoing tension takes a real toll.”
Before reading the rest of the message, I burst into tears. I've been so scared to talk to anyone about it, to seem as though I'm overdramatizing. Worse, I'm afraid they'll confirm what I already think: that I deserve this, that I'm greedy. I shouldn't have eaten those grapes. I should have cleaned my dishes immediately. I should've remembered the way he liked things. I shouldn't have left the room when he started getting agitated. The shoulds and shouldn'ts spiral in my brain, scrambling it into a gray mush.
This, though, this is what I needed to hear. I want someone (something?) to affirm my reality. To tell me that these feelings of being on-edge, of never wanting to go back, are legitimate. My own mind feels jumbled, hyper-aware of all the ways in which I fall short of perfection. Endlessly, my thoughts remind me how fat, ugly, unaccomplished, lazy, mean, rude, selfish, and dumb I am.
I look back at the screen and read the rest of the response. The words are calm, measured, certain––everything I am not. They wouldn’t hide the way I do, wouldn’t slam doors the ways he does. I close my laptop and think about who I wish had told me those words. How I yearn for her to stand up for me against him, comfort me, tell me she loves me.
I go back to my window, looking out at the big city. What does it mean, when only the words on the screen start to feel real?
Edited by: Sreemoyee Ghosh & Angela Kim