Here, among the same floorboards and green carpet I learned to walk on, at the dining room table-turned-desk, among the stacks of books I haven’t read yet, in my bedroom that is always bright, I isolate. Surrounded by half-empty bottles of hand sanitizer and the sound of the news on a constant loop, fear when my mother leaves for and returns from the hospital where she works, the smell of leftovers and disinfectant, I isolate. Only you keep me here, away from the work I love to do, the friends I love to be around, the apartment I thought I had more time in. Only you keep me in fear, give me cracked and dry hands from washing and drying, sanitizing, and then sanitizing again. Only you can take away my vacations, my freedom, my sense of security. Only you can make me afraid to leave my house, to breathe deeply, to hug my own mother. Because you’re here, I isolate. --Emily G