They called it an inciting incident when something enormous changed your life. For me, it was more than that. More incendiary. Like an earthquake that leveled an entire city.
Earthquake Darien upended my entire world. It shook the foundation my life was built upon to the ground, leaving nothing but dust and rubble in its wake. And just like with any earthquake, it wasn’t just one-and-done. No, the aftershocks kept coming, disrupting my life—what was left of it—for months afterward. Years, even.
After school, I started hanging around the art kids, sitting in their paint-splattered circle and pretending I belonged. Sketching my feelings onto paper so they didn’t drown my heart. Other afternoons, I drifted to the arcade, half-laughing along while quarters disappeared into machines. Or I tagged along to the mall or a movie, always careful to choose something light and ridiculous. No horror, no gore, nothing that left me raw. But it wasn’t the same. No one shared popcorn with me. No one’s hand brushed mine in the dark.
At home, nights turned into board games with Mom, flour on the counter from baking cookies, or the two of us drifting lazy circles in the pool until the sky turned violet. It wasn’t the same as before. It wasn’t the same ashim. But day by day, the silence stopped swallowing me whole.
It all started with that kiss. That incendiary explosion that burned my life to the ground.
It was supposed to be harmless, a simple party game. In that explosive moment, I thought it was the best thing that had ever happened to me. But now I knew better. Kissing Darien was the worst thing that ever happened to me.
Some days, I didn’t know if I'd ever be able to rebuild the damage left by that quake. Some places never got repaired, youjust learned to live in the wreckage, breathing in the dust, pretending it didn’t choke you.
My sketchbook became filled with images of him, of childhood adventures, his face half-erased beneath storm clouds and pouring rain, with rough lines capturing the blur of his body sprinting across a soccer field. The lines came easy, too easy, like my hands still remembered what my heart wanted to forget.
Sometimes I tore the pages out and fed them to the fire in the trash can behind the garage. Watched him curl and blacken until there was nothing left but smoke on my fingers and ash in my chest. As if I could cauterize the wound by setting fire to the proof.
Other times, I just shut the sketchbook and slid it back onto the shelf, hiding him between the covers, where the memories could stay secret.
I didn’t expect anything. Not a text. Not a nod in the hallway. Definitely not a miracle.
I hadn’t been back to the ramp in months. Not since I carved a line through the heart we pissed on, spit on, and swore on like it meant something.
But today hit different.
My fifteenth birthday.
Dare didn’t even blink at me.
The sky was overcast when I rode my bike down the cracked pavement of the dead-end street. The clouds were soheavy they looked bruised. Tangled grass curled through the rusted bars of the gate like tentacles.
I dropped my bike at the edge and pushed through.
The skateboard ramp had collapsed a little more. One corner sagged, wood rotting where the rain had soaked in. A few of the Sharpie drawings still clung to the beams, barely legible now. I crouched and ducked underneath anyway, out of habit. Out of need.
That’s when I saw it.
A small bundle wrapped in a square of newspaper was tucked behind the support post. He hadn’t tried to hide it well. Maybe he wanted me to find it, but couldn’t risk giving it to me himself.
For a long moment, I simply held it in my hands, wondering, hoping I wouldn’t regret opening it. Finally, when the anticipation nearly stole my breath, I peeled back the soft paper to find a rock inside.
It was smooth, palm-sized, the kind we used to collect and pretend were dinosaur eggs or meteorites. But this one had words written across it in black marker, smudged a little from moisture, but still readable.
“Sorry I ruined everything.”
On the back, in smaller letters, almost like an afterthought:
“Happy Birthday.”
That was it. No name. No signature. But I knew it was fromhim. The breath gathered in my lungs rushed out of me in a dizzying whoosh.
I sat under the ramp until my legs went numb, turning the rock over in my hands. Maybe, if I stared long enough, it would tell me what he couldn’t. I didn’t cry. But I didn’t smile either. Because part of me wanted to throw it into the woods as hard as I could. And part of me wanted to hold on to it because it was the last piece of him I had left.
The first drops of rain pattered through the gaps in the boards, dotting the dust at my feet. I lifted my hand, watching the water streak across my skin, and felt the sadness in my chest press heavier. The sky rumbled low in warning.
I tucked the rock into my pocket, holding it like a secret, and pushed myself up. My legs tingled pins-and-needles, stiff from sitting too long. By the time I dragged my bike out from under the ramp, the drizzle had thickened to a steady pour, soaking my hair, my hoodie, everything.
I kept pedaling anyway. The tires hissed against wet pavement, my breath fogging in the cooling air. Home had never felt so far away.
