It was one of those moments when you say your own name it feels like holes in a moth-eaten sweater. Where your identity used to wrap you up, now it's just something you're keeping, pathetically, while the entire universe silently begs you to throw it away.

Jane.

Perfectly printed for the first time in history next to the date and time and doctor's scribble, all just echoes now. Said and said and said and said and my holes are getting larger. They're eating more and more and my holes are getting larger but I can't just look down and see me, you know? No one really consciously notices your clothing until it's all gone, and then everyone notices.

"I told her that I can't go to that."

Of course, I'm not Jane. So I suppose it's only proper that I feel this way.