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[Brackie]

The blinking cursor was now taunting Jordan, if only to remind her she was an idiot for even going through with this in the first place.

But what else was she supposed to do?

She didn't deserve to be alive. So many of her friends were gone and yet thanks to a fluke of a bad tire, she had survived. If she was going to be remembered for anything, she would be the Seth Macfarlane of her graduating class, only she was much less bigoted or prone to pleasing bootlickers. If the tire hadn't blown on the way to school, sending her careening onto the curb with the loudest screech coming from both the car and her own throat, she didn't know what could have happened. Her own friend's car crash flashed before her eyes as it happened to her, and for a few moments the worst case scenarios snapped through her head.

But it did happen, and here she was. Yet the worst case scenarios were still replaying themselves.

At the time, Snapchats were sent, Instagram stories were shared, and Jordan seethed with jealousy. She'd always wanted to visit the nation's capital, and not remain trapped in her hometown forever, but fate took away momentary pleasure to save her from the life-ending pain. But the same hand of fate did not embrace Abel, or Mercy, or Sierra, or...

Jordan's hands were shaking on the rests of her computer chair. She kept doing this. Every time her thoughts shifted back to the fate she so narrowly avoided, she just went over her missing friends again and again and it caused her nothing but anxiety. She couldn't keep doing this, purposefully triggering her own problems just to feel bad. She deserved to feel bad, but she needed to grow from it, somehow. Otherwise, there was no point. Something needed to come from this, anything.

She felt awful for considering her friends like this. She hadn't stopped feeling awful since the disappearances rolled in. Part of her wanted to just keep feeling awful, so she would have any excuse to stay in her room and not talk to her parents. Sit in her room, message her friends on Tumblr, and hope one of them could say the right thing to snap her out of it. But instead, all she did was reblog. She tried making a post, but it was quickly swamped and shared and screencapped for Twitter, and Jordan's anxiety couldn't deal with it so she deleted it and very nearly deleted her whole blog.

Which made it make so much less sense that the thought even occured to her to open up a message and began writing to Never Again MSD. When tragedy occured, Jordan always jumped to the frontlines of the internet to raise her voice and raise it well, and she'd spent so many emotional hours reading accounts and posting memorabilia in her own attempt to rally people to the cause in the safety of her own bedroom. But by the time Jordan had arrived at the end of her own message about her own recurring tragedy on American soil she suddenly realized how pathetic she was. She'd never gone to a real demonstration in her life. She'd never been shot at.

She didn't fit in with these others at all.

Compared to them, she was pathetic.

What did they have in common, really? They were kids, and their friends died. That was it. That was the tweet. She'd read about their lives, of the brave people who stood up and started a revolutionary movement, a movement she thought she herself was important enough to join for enough time to write a message that they would never read. They'd all done so much more than her even before their own tragedy, and what had Jordan done? Quit the debate team because she didn't want to have to speak to fascists in her own school? Shown up to her geek meetings? Help start a club whose only joining thread was their shared ancestry?

Jordan was aware of her own shortcomings, but she was also just as aware of how harsh the words in her head were being. She'd never thought like this before about her own life, not even in her saddest moments. Even when she was obsessing over how ugly and disgusting her body was, it was never about her as a person - it was about how nobody would ever find her pretty or attractive. And yet here she sat, spinning and descending, unable to stop herself for more than a few minutes of thinking about how funny it was she thought she deserved to try.

The message wasn't complete, but Jordan didn't care. She moved the mouse's cursor to the shape with the X inside and clicked.

Only for nothing to happen.

She clicked again, nothing.

Jordan repeated the clicks.

Nothing.

She closed her eyes, trying to take her breath. But just as quickly as she began, she concluded, and in a short momentary burst of sudden anger she slammed her open hand down onto the keyboard.

However, what she didn't expect to happen was that the window containing the message would disappear, replaced by the spinning disc of the cursor sitting on top of her email browser.

Had...had she just sent her mere 85% complete message to the most important teenage movement in the country?

Were the people who created March For Our Lives going to have to read Jordan's ramblings now?

Jordan let out a short shriek as she dove to the cord connecting her computer to the internet via yellow cable and yanked it out. However, as her eyes returned to the screen, except now without the spinning cursor.

A small number appeared to the side of Jordan's Outbox.

She stared at her own computer screen for a few moments, trying to anticipate her own feelings upon realizing she'd just fulfilled her own worst nightmare.

But as quickly as the dread came, it vanished, because Jordan felt something else instead, and it was something she hadn't felt since the blown tire.