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When I was seven years old, my mother told me that I was like a black hole. I looked them up that night at the library. A black hole is many things. It’s when a bunch of stuff is crammed together in a small space and eventually the place explodes into this big old hole. Or so it is in normal words. Black holes can also bend time. I can’t do that, so I don’t know why I would be a black hole. When I asked my mum why she said that, she just told me it meant that I lacked a soul. I didn’t really get that either. How could I lack something that doesn’t exist? I asked, and she told me that I would understand when I was older and to peel the potatoes. I did. I sliced them. They were black inside, rotten, compressed. Like black holes. I never did understand. I looked up more about black holes and it said they would stretch people out due to the power of gravity contained inside. My mother said she would stretch me out if I didn't stay quiet. So I was. Years passed. I got older, went into astrology. Became a definitive on black holes. Never fell in love. How could someone without a soul fall in love? They told me she was dying. I hadn’t seen her in nearly forty years. Sat by her bedside. Held her hand. I told her about my new job. She didn’t listen. She never listened. I told her I studied black holes. I reminded her I was one. A frown. A shake of the head. A no, I never said that. Yes, you did. No I didn’t. Reflective face, crinkles at her eyes. They aren’t from smiles. They aren’t from laughter. A black hole, you say? Yes. A black hole. I never said that. I was seven. I remember. You're old, you don't. I would never call you a black hole. No. You were more... You were a ghost.