Bird BIRD After midnight, it''s finally quiet here. But there''s no way I''ll fall asleep, not without knowing. For the whole hour drive home from the airport this afternoon, I kept telling myself I didn''t care. I wouldn''t care. As I unpacked my bags and started my laundry, I wanted that clean break. As I helped Mom make dinner and feed the twins, I accepted it. And as I sat down at the kitchen table, everyone talking over each other, being asked not once but three times by both Mom and Daniel how the summer workshop went--never once being given a chance to answer--I reminded myself that we were being logical. Mature, even.

Except now it''s after midnight and it''s too quiet and all I can think about is how he said he''d write to me when he made it home, even though I told him not to. How she said she wouldn''t write because it would be too hard. Every creak of the stairs is amplified as I try, silently as possible, to make my way downstairs to the communal family computer. The dinging screeching static of the dial-up screams through the quiet. I hold my breath, hoping the stupid modem hasn''t woken anyone. Dialing. I sit in silence, the tiny yellow figure suspended, waiting to run across the screen. I look over my shoulder, try to listen.

I hear Daniel snoring from my mom''s room--their room. A mattress spring creaking in one of the kids'' bedrooms. Connecting. I watch the yellow guy hop to the next box. And, finally, Connected . I''m in. Then I fumble to turn down the speakers as they blare out, "You''ve got mail." "Shhh," I hiss.

Even though I haven''t checked my email in weeks, I only have three messages in my inbox. None from him. Or her. I try to ignore the sinking feeling this churns up in my stomach. There''s one from my older brother, Charlie; one from my best friend, Kayla; and one from the writing workshop with the subject line: Thank you, staff and students, for a wonderful summer of words and. I open the email, but it''s too long to read right now. I don''t have the attention span--or the heart span--not when I know that across the country, in a different time zone, they both received this same email. I wonder if they thought the same thing I''m thinking: that the summer was filled with a lot more than just words.

Charlie''s email is short. No subject. Hey Bird, Sorry I couldn''t wait to leave till you got back. Had some stuff I needed to take care of on campus but will call with an update on our "research project" soon. Hope you had a fun time at the writing thing. X Charlie Kayla''s subject line is just a bunch of exclamation points. I''m not sure I have the heart span for this one either, but I open it anyway. Birdie-- hi and MAJOR DEVELOPMENT! I THINK DADE IS MY LITERAL SOULMATE I''M DYING.

U GET HOME 2MORROW RIGHT?? WILL TELL U EVERYTHING THEN!!!!! Btw so sorry i missed your calls. the rents are being very strict but i got ur letters and the poem and ohmygawd WHAT happened there?!?! Didn''t have a chance to write back but want to hear ALL the juicy details for sure. Gotta go but c u soon! Luv u, kayla P.S. yes of course i will drive you to your open mic thing I want to reply in all caps that the details aren''t juicy. They''re painful and scary and confusing. and, okay, maybe a little bit epically life-altering and amazing. Followed by five exclamation points.

I want to respond that she likely hadn''t found her literal soulmate, especially because she has had ten literal soulmates since junior year and has barely even exchanged a single word with any of them. But I don''t. I write back quickly: No worries! We''ll catch up tomorrow. Well, today! I''m about to sign off when a new message pops up. It''s from him. I really wish it was her, though, because there are things I still need to tell her, even if I never figured out how to say them. I hate the way my heart stutters as I read his subject line: this is why i never liked haiku / 17 syllables isn''t enough to say what i mean. I open it right away.

miss you already little bird told me not to sorry, can''t help it I start to write back because of that little flutter in my chest telling me, I matter to someone--do anything, anything , to keep this feeling . Turns out I''m happy he wrote even though I told him not to. For a few seconds, anyway. Rereading, I''m not sure I truly understood the difference between alone and lonely until right now. But I''ve learned a lot about words this summer. And I''ve grown addicted to the feeling of not being lonely. I miss it already. I shut down the computer.

Creep back upstairs. In bed again, I pull the covers up to my chin and stare at the ceiling. As my eyes adjust to the dark, the quiet I usually crave echoes all around me, only amplifying the deep empty spaces I feel inside, the ones I''ve been trying so hard to pretend aren''t there.