It was weeks until she came to realize what was wrong with the nice feather-tipped pen she’d got to replace the one she’d lost. It was weeks of slow memories bubbling to the surface at the strangest times (in the bath and at her friend’s house and in the middle of lunch and half asleep on the floor), reminding her about that pen, the one that had got away. In time she was full up of a dozen times that pen had helped her write out how she felt when she couldn’t say it. A hundred times more it had felt cool and reassuring in her grip.
And now it was gone, and there was a piece missing from those memories. There was a piece gone out of her, like the stopper out of a bathtub or the base from an hourglass. She felt that little by little she was draining. Becoming hollow.
Becoming a little less of herself.