There’s nothing wrong with me. There’s nothing wrong with me. There’s nothing wrong with me. I keep repeating it to myself, as if that will make it true. But there’s no hiding the truth—there is something terribly wrong with me.

I look up from where I’m sitting, and see the night sky. The stars glitter and twinkle silently, so many lightyears away. A loud beating noise catches my attention, buffeted air assaulting my eardrums. Looking down again, I notice a small moth fluttering near my lantern. I extinguish the light with a loud sizzling, and sigh with relief as the moth noisily finds his way to a new light source, just out of earshot. As much as I appreciate the silence, I miss his company.