Your favourite secondary school teacher died a few months ago. Cancer. It was slow. They had time to settle their affairs before they went.

This week you'll attend your twentieth high-school reunion. You don't really want to, but the one friend you're still in contact with (sometimes she likes your status on Facebook, every few years you leave a "Happy Belated Birthday!" comment on her blog) has convinced you to come along. It will be no fun without you, she says. I don't really have anything to say to anyone else.

You don't ask why she's going. You just say yes.

You're at the reunion. No one tells you about the teacher who passed away. No one really remembers who you are. That's fine, because you don't really remember them either. You vaguely recognise the face of the guy who played a part alongside you in the school play. He's too big for the button-up shirt he's wearing. And he's breathing through his mouth. You keep your distance. There's nothing to say, anyway.

You pick at your scalp, at a scab that has been with you a month now - never quite healing, always scratched away before its time. Every time it comes off, the wound is smaller. Soon it will be gone. You dyed your hair last night, so today the scab is an odd colour. You flick it to the floor. Someone is whispering about an absentee. A "surprise lesbian", whatever that means.

"Well, I hope she never liked me!" The woman laughs, pats at at tears that aren't there. She air-kisses people when she sees them. You can just tell.

There's a sound. Water dripping, getting louder. You look up. There's a leak in the ceiling. Maybe from an air conditioning unit. You once stayed in a hotel room like that - drip, drip drip all night long. Right next to the wardrobe - you kept your clothing in the bedside table instead. You complained, which is to say that you mentioned the problem in a neutral tone of voice and didn't push the issue. It didn't get fixed. You left after two nights, anyway. No need to make a fuss. Although you couldn't get the smell of mould out of your fabric-lined suitcase for days.

The dripping is getting faster. In fact, it's less like a drip, and more like a small stream. You step backwards as the roof caves in.