I survived 0—the year I became a maybe. I survived 7—the age I learned goodbye doesn't need a reason. I survived 13—not unlucky, just a Tuesday that asked too much. I survived 98.6, 104, and the thermometer my mother shook like a prayer. I survived 2 a.m., 3 a.m., every hour that asked why I was still awake. I survived 404, not found. 500, internal error. Again. Again. I survived 50/50, and the side I landed on. I survived 0.5—half a mile home, half a heart in it. I survived 30 days, 60, 365, and the anniversary I swore I wouldn't count. I survived 86,400 seconds on days I only needed one reason. Numbers can measure a life. They can't live one. I'm not the count. I'm the comma— the breath a