Every face in every photo is so alive, so full of warmth it feels almost cruel.
What would they think if they could see me now? Sitting here, alone, crossing lines I used to swear I never would. Making the same mistakes over and over.
I used to think morality was simple. That it was about doing the right thing, not because you felt obligated but because that’s what youwantedto do. I was raised to believe integrity mattered, even when no one else could see it. But life isn’t that simple anymore. It hasn’t been for a long time.
When we lose that, we become empty versions of who we were.
Maybe that’s what I’ve been feeling all this time. A quiet, hollow ache that no amount of routine or teaching can fill. An emptiness left behind when you stop believing that the choices you make matter.
But Jackson still believes it.
Even after everything, he still believes that morality defines what’s left of a person.
I’m not sure I do.
The house creaks softly with the dropping temperature outside. My eyes flit across the pictures on the other side of the room, and my chest tightens. Everything inside me is constricted as much by grief as it is by what comes with it. The quiet. The loneliness. The memories that refuse to fade no matter how much you wish they would.
No matter how many years pass, the air seems to grow heavier and stiller this time of year.
I never plan for it. I never talk about it.
I just wait for it to be over.
Reaching up, I rub the bridge of my nose, my eyes burning from too many hours of grading. But I know that’s not the real reason for the ache behind them.
For a long time, I just sit there, staring at nothing and listening to the sounds of the house settling. Thinking about mortality and morality, about meaning and loss.
Thinking about the way Jackson has been looking at me—with caution and with questions. Like he’s trying to figure out whether I’m someone he can trust or someone he should fear.
Maybe he’s right not to trust me.
I set Jackson’s essay on the corner of my desk, aligning it perfectly with the edge. I tell myself I’m done for the night. That I won’t touch it again.
But when I turn off the lamp, my eyes drift to the shadow of those few lone pages, pale against the wood, as though whatever truth Jackson buried there won’t let me forget it.
It started as curiosity. Ormaybe it was obsession. I’m not sure anymore.
I wish I could say I brushed off those emails as some sick joke and went on with my life. But that would be a lie.
Every time I close my eyes, I see Dylan’s name glowing on the screen.
Every time I open them, I think of Isaac.
The nights feel longer, the air heavier, like the whole town’s holding its breath.
Maybe it’s just me. Too many late nights, too little sleep. But sometimes I swear my laptop is whispering at me when it’s shut, like it’s waiting for me to reply to the last email.
Why should I believe this is really Dylan?
From:Dylan Ross
To:Jackson Ellis
Subject:Re: Hello, Jackson.
You shouldn’t. Dylan’s dead.
I stopped responding after that. That was three days ago.
