Doesn’t matter. My brain is determined to torture me tonight.
I flip on the lights. Go to the kitchen. Open the fridge. Stare at the contents without really seeing them. Close it again.
Not hungry.
I should shower. Change out of this uniform that still smells faintly of her despite the cold and the coffee and the hours in between.
Instead, I end up in front of my closet. Staring at the top shelf. At the box shoved in the back corner, behind old sweatshirts and gear I never use.
I haven’t touched that box in years. Haven’t let myself.
I pull it down anyway.
It’s lighter than I remember. Or maybe I’m just stronger. Or maybe it’s just that the weight of it isn’t physical.
I sit on the edge of my bed. Open the lid.
Photos. A dried flower from prom. Ticket stubs from the first movie we all saw together. A folded piece of paper that I know without looking is the letter I never sent.
And underneath all of it, a picture.
Senior year. The four of us at the lake. Theo’s got his arm around Cara’s shoulders, grinning like an idiot. Lucas is mid-laugh, caught off guard by whoever was taking the picture. And me. Standing slightly apart, the way I always did.
But Cara’s reaching back to hold my hand. Her fingers laced through mine. Anchoring me to them.
To her.
We were so young. Eighteen and stupid and sure that nothing could touch us. Pack bonds forming, future wide open, everything we wanted right there within reach.
She left three months after this picture was taken.
I set the photo aside. Pick up the letter.
The paper’s soft now. Worn at the creases from all the times I folded and unfolded it that first year. I know every word by heart. Wrote them at two in the morning after the forty-seventh unanswered voicemail.
Forty-seven. Lucas kept count. Sat me down one night and said it wasn’t healthy. Said I was hurting myself.
He wasn’t wrong.
I unfold it anyway.
Cara,
I don’t know if you’ll ever read this. Probably not. But I can’t keep calling a phone you won’t answer, so I’m writing this down instead. Getting it out of my head.
I need to know why.
That’s it. That’s all. Just tell me why. Was it something I did? Was it too much, the four of us? Was I too intense? Too protective? Too much of everything you didn’t want?
I’ve gone over every conversation from that last month. Every text. Every moment. I can’t find where it broke. I can’t find the thing I did wrong. And it’s driving me insane.
Lucas thinks I should let it go. Theo cries when he thinks we’re not listening. And I keep calling like an idiot, like maybe if I try one more time, you’ll pick up. You’ll explain. You’ll tell me it was all a mistake and you’re coming home.
But you’re not coming home, are you?
I loved you. I still love you. I hate that I still love you. I hate that you have that kind of power over me. I hate that you left and took everything good with you and I’m still here, waiting for a call that’s never going to come.
So this is me stopping. This is me letting go. This is me accepting that you made your choice and it wasn’t us.
