“You saved me,” I whisper, my heart beating fast in my chest. I’m not sure what I’m doing, but if I want him to open up to me, I need to be open to him.
“What are you talking about?”
“Senior year, April 27th, you saved me,” I whisper.
“I don’t understand,” he whispers, pulling his face out of my neck and looking me in the eyes. I take a slow, deep breath. No one knows about this. I’ve never shared this with anyone, not even my therapist. No one knows how bad it was, how dark a place I was in.
“I was planning on taking my life that night, and your text saved my life.”
He stares at me for a few seconds like he’s struggling to process what I just said. We haven’t really talked about my situation since the incident.
“I’d driven up the canyon. I was planning on taking whatever pills were in Monica’s medicine cabinet,” I whisper as the tears begin to fall, one by one. “I parked in a place that wasn’t supposed to have any service. I wrote letters; they were in the backseat in my bag, along with my journal that detailed everything that had led me up to the point that I was at. The sex tape of me losing my virginity that was posted online, screenshots of dozens of hate messages I’d received before the video was posted and after, recordings of what my parents, peers, and siblings were saying about me when they thought that I wasn’t around.”
I have to pause to wipe my eyes. He sits up and stares at me, like he has no idea what to say or how to react. I get it, this is a lot to put on a person, at least I wouldn’t have to explain the sex tape.
Silver lining.
“Jesus Christ,” he whispers, his fingers finding mine as he holds my hands in his lap.
“I’d started taking the pills, but then your text came through. It was a simple text, too, just you asking if I was ready for graduation. But for whatever reason, it stopped me. I drove home and put the box with everything up in my closet.” I take another shaky breath. “When I moved out, I threw away the tape with the videos and the evidence, because I never wanted to think about it ever again, but I still have the letters and the journals.”
“You still have them?” he whispers, and I pull my hands out of his and press my palms into my eyes.
“Yeah, they are upstairs. I keep them as a reminder of how far I’ve come. As a reminder that even in the darkest tunnels, there’s light at the end of it.”
He gently guides me into his lap.
“Oh my God, I’m so sorry this was supposed to be about you, and your feelings, I’m so sorry,” I whisper, burying my face into his chest and feeling selfish.
“Hey, no, it’s ok. Thank you for telling me, can I…” He trails off, and I lift my eyes to find his.
“What?”
“Can I see them?” he whispers.
“See what?”
“The journals and letters?”
“You want to read them?”
“No…well, only if you’re ok with that. But I just want to see them.”
“Why?”
“Because I need to know how many times you needed someone and you didn’t have anyone.”
I bite my lip as more tears start to form. I get off his lap and slowly make my way upstairs into my room. He doesn’t follow me. I take my time getting myself together, grabbing the shoebox from my closet, and taking the whole thing with me when I go back downstairs.
“Welcome to high school, Sloane,” I whisper, setting the box down in front of him.
He looks at the box for a few long moments before opening it. Inside are four journals, one for each year, and six letters, one for Monica, Briar, Lottie, Kaden, Mason, and Beckett.
He picks up the letter that has his name on it.
“You wrote one for me.”
“Yeah, you’ve always been someone who’s been important to me. My friend, when I never really had one,” I whisper, wiping away my eyes. “I know it’s stupid?—”
