Becca Corrine

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I live under the assumption that I will live exactly 100 years. I picked the number as a child when I was too scared to not live forever and 100 years sounded decently like forever. Then I hit fourteen, eighteen, I realize my life is nearly a fifth done. The sun circles round, the progress bar progresses. Then, I die. I was an anxious child. Very scared of death, I was obsessed, as people are with their fears, and I called my dad on his way home from work to tell him I didn’t know how I could stand being alone when everyone else is gone. I picture my parents with matching headstones, traditional, rounded at the edges. I am scared that I estimated too high and my math is all wrong. I am scared that I am far more than a fifth done with this life and I will never fully progress. I am an anxious child, still obsessed. I celebrate birthdays, fractions bouncing throughout my mind. I feel too old to be this young.
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