“No.”

“I’m sorry, honey, but it will make life so much easier for both of us.”

“I already feel like you’ve become more mother than spouse with this sickness. Now this? I’m an adult, not a baby.”

“I know. It’s not a big deal.”

“Then you wear them!”

“I’m sure I will someday, especially if it keeps me from having to get up in the middle of the night, remove the bed linen, load the washing machine, remake the bed, change my pajamas and then try to go back to sleep.”

“Fine. I’ll get Dependence.”

“Depends.”

“Depends on what?”

“Nevermind.”

“Tower 18 requesting green light.”

“Negative. Once word spreads that signal is available, maximum target rich environment will be attained. Standby.”

The Commander was right; crowds began surrounding Tower 18’s base. Signal was life to them. Their tech dependence made this almost too easy.

“Engage at will.” The order came.

Curious, he first checked what the targets were viewing:

Political arguments

Porn

Conspiracy theories

Social media influencers

Cat singing “go meow”

TikTok challenges

Woman spitting

Clearly, this operation held value. Some looked up from their screens long enough to see the incoming ballistics. A handful managed to livestream their demise.

“It depends,” the teacher said using actions alone, no words were spoken.

You see, Jessie was learning to sign and her teacher was Deaf.

Her heart squeezed with a curious coupling of anxiety and relief. It certainly wasn’t the answer she expected.

Jessie hated depending on anyone and everything due to the guaranteed outcome of disappointment.

In that moment, however, she realized how dependent everything in life was on something else.

Even the sign “Depends”demonstrates how one finger depends on the other to keep it suspended.

The answer Jessie sought to gain greater knowledge truly depended upon nothing and everything.

Every night, I clung to my father’s tattered sweater, inhaling the lingering scent of tobacco and pine. It was all I had left of him. When he was alive, his stories and laughter filled our home of warmth in winter. One evening, I misplaced the sweater. I searched every corner, finding it soaked in the backyard. Holding it to my chest, I wept, realizing the sweater’s threads were fraying, just like my memories. But as tears fell, I felt his presence, not in the fabric, but in the love we shared, in our talks, and in rainy days, eternally unbreakable.

The coffee was too strong, even for my liking. I sliced a sliver of the tin fouled wrapped banana loaf and grimaced at the texture.

It felt like a rectangular sponge, ready to suck the moisture from my lips. I took a tentative bite, using the glass of water to force it down. It also gave the sponge-like cake satisfaction of ripping away moisture that wasn't mine.

I remember my mother's morning coffee in bed, and grandmothers homemade banana loaf. It tastes bitter without their touch, but with their memory, I add a dash of something indescribably perfect. Sweet. Love.

I didn't want it to end like this.

Like intertwining strings on braids, we were inseparable.

Through that open garage door, we played our instruments over cicadas' calls. Drums shouted. Guitars chattered. Violins sang. We had fun.

Days passed with familiar hollers from that garage. At least, until the last day of summer break.

Winds babbled, leaves responded.

We took silent footsteps to the train station. Two hands waved as they were left behind.

Like intertwining strings on braids, without the knot holding us together, we are but gears of a broken clock, waiting for time to move once more.

Love conquers all. Love will find a way. Love will set you free. That's what we grow up with. Read in stories, and watch in movies. The one that stayed with me is the freedom-giving aspect.

What is this freedom that love brings, and how does it set us free? Doesn't it bind one heart with another instead? Sounds ironic.

So, I decide to research 'freedom'. Freedom of expression. Freedom of opinion. Freedom of thought. Then, I look for synonyms and find that freedom also manifests as independence: In deep and dense.

Anyone who has been in love knows that!

Depending on what she meant, he was either all in or on the way out. As always, he hung on her every word. But this word, in particular, was challenging, if not terrifying.

The word wasn't easy or hard. It wasn't a long word or too short to take seriously. No, the word she used was, well, undecipherable. Yet, it would determine whether he would be in or out. Over or under. Above or below. Invited, again, or dismissed.

This word she used was the one that strikes fear in all men. It's a word demanding remedy or shame:

"Unsatisfied."

I was never the person that needed to be helped. I never asked for money. I never asked someone to drive me to work when my car didn't start. I never needed help moving a couch or dresser. I was always the independent person. Now, I am the complete opposite. I depend on my family and friends. I need help. It kills me to need them. It would have been better to have been killed. I would prefer it. Death is a better alternative to the burdensome shell I have become. I am a dependent, a nice word for burden.

We live in a world of dependencies. Sweet nectar-like chemicals that wet the appetite, bright glittering screens and swipes and likes that flood the brain with dopamine, and drugs that stimulate and sedate. I, personally, am addicted to many things. Coffee, weed, sugar, social media, all of which are needed to keep me contently isolated on my hamster wheel. We are all addicted to something, stimulants to get us out of bed and increase productivity, sedatives so we can quiet our anxious hearts and go to bed on time. Maybe one day we'll admit it and start to heal together.