Julia Rouillard
Old Soul “Do you believe in past lives?” I ask Talia, feigning nonchalance by scrolling through my phone. Sam Smith plays through the speaker on the wall. “I’ve never really thought about it.” She pauses and stares at the corner of the ceiling. “I mean, humans are wrong about pretty much everything so if the popular opinion is no, I’m inclined to think otherwise.” I put my phone down and pick at the comforter. My nails scratch against the fabric. “Have you ever thought about your own? If you had them, I mean.” “In passing, sure. Like, I can’t walk up the stairs if someone’s behind me. I have to run. And no one’s ever, you know, chased me up the stairs and tried to kill me, but that’s all I can think about.” I nod slowly. Do I tell her? Will she think I’m crazy? I run through the same thoughts until they blur together and my vision slides out of focus; the gray flowers on my comforter blend together. 9
