Still Here

People keep messaging me to ask if I’m ‘okay.’ I honestly don’t know what that word is supposed to mean anymore. I’m here, I’m breathing, and I’m still going to work. Does that count as okay? Charlie’s bedroom still smells like his deodorant—that sharp, cheap spice he always used. I hate that detail. I hate that I can still smell him when he’s nowhere to be found. It feels like a cruel joke. I spent the morning looking at the ‘public safety’ maps again, trying to see if there’s a pattern to where people are going missing, but it’s all just lines on paper. I’m tired of being ‘okay.’ I just want my brother back.