Adam knew the blank pages were staring up at him, judging him for his carelessness. Write, he told himself, but his hand did not follow. His New York apartment smelled of oven smoke and stale flowers, a gift from a neighbor who thought he was someone else. The space didn’t feel like home and never had.

He pressed the pencil to the whiteness and watched as the tip broke, turning from something sharp and useful to a dull, useless utensil. He felt as if he were looking in a mirror.

Laughter filled the apartment, emerging deep from his belly. Of course the pencil would break. Of course he’d feel pressured by this exercise. He picked the booklet up and walked to the open window. Throwing it outside, he watched the pages flutter like snow, and knew what it was to begin to let go.