Papa doesn’t look at me. His eyes stay fixed on the static screen of the television and his body is frozen upright, with only his chest slowly rising and falling as he breathes. My fingers clutch the sleeves of his shirt, tugging gently as the tears roll down my face and drop off my chin, dampening the collar of my shirt more and more every time I blink. “Papa, I'm here. I'm here. I'm so sorry,” my sobs rack my entire body as I beg him to look at me, but he doesn’t. He hasn’t looked at me for what seems like hours and I still keep begging him to. Apologizing when I'm not sure what I did wrong. My throat feels dry and my lips are chapped. My eyes are tired and swollen and desperately waiting to be closed.
“Please, please say something. Please look at me and tell me what’s wrong,” my fragil
