“Exactly. We got so caught up in being adults that we forgot about actually living. We should fix that.”
“Pauline—”
“I’m in Vegas right now for a wedding. I could come to California after it’s over. We could do some of the list. The reckless stuff. When’s the last time you did something just because you wanted to?”
I couldn’t remember. When was the last time I did something fun?
After we hung up, I sat there on my bed and retrieved the journal.
The cover was plastered with decade-old stickers—stars, moons, and quotes that felt painfully naive now.
“One hundred things to do before turning thirty”in my handwriting across the first page.
Santorini at sunset. Kiss someone in the rain. See the Northern Lights. Fall in love.
All those dreams from when thirty seemed far away and death happened to other people. When we’d been young enough to believe wanting something badly enough would make it happen.
I flipped through pages. Some crossed off, most untouched. Then I stopped on an entry that wasn’t in our handwriting.
Jack had grabbed the journal once and written “DON’T DO ANYTHING STUPID” in his aggressive scrawl, and drawn an arrow pointing to number forty-seven.
Tell him how you feel.
I’d written that one alone, late at night during a sleepover. I hadn’t specified who “him” was. I didn’t need to because his name was engraved in my heart.
Michael Ashford.
My brother’s best friend. Five years older. Completely off-limits.
I realized I loved him when I turned seventeen.
He was twenty-one that summer, home from college. I’d destroyed my laptop the week before my senior project was due—still don’t know how—and Jack called Michael because Michael understood computers like breathing.
He showed up with a toolkit and spent three hours recovering files I thought were gone. Explained everything in this calm voice, and I just watched his hands and the way his forehead crinkled when he concentrated. Somewhere between “corrupted sectors” and “miraculous save,” I fell completely in love with him.
With his patience and the way he looked at me like I wasn’t just Jack’s annoying little sister.
I’d had twelve years to tell him, and I chose silence every time. Last I heard, he’d gotten engaged two months ago.
I’d lost everything without ever giving it a try. I’d been afraid of—rejection, ruined friendships, uncomfortable family dinners—now all of it needed a future I didn’t have.
My hands were shaking when I opened my laptop. I stared at the search bar for a full minute before typing “flights to Vegas.”
Pauline had mentioned being there this week. I could tick some of the list with her, even if it didn’t involve Michael Ashford.
I found a flight leaving in six hours. Barely enough time to pack and get to the airport. I hit “book” before my brain could catch up. Entered my credit card. Hit confirm.
Done. Non-refundable.
My parents would panic when they found out. Jack would probably try to drag me home. Dr. Rivera would have opinions about stress and rest.
But I was tired of waiting.
I packed light: a carry-on with clothes for a few days, medications in orange bottles, and that bucket list journal. I left the note on the kitchen counter because disappearing felt cruel even if staying felt impossible.
“Visiting Pauline in Vegas. Back soon. Don’t worry.”
They’d worry anyway. But I’d be in the air before they could stop me.
