that day, she has waited for my truck to pull into the driveway after school. As soon as I step onto the porch, she takes her spot. The streak of faded sunlight across the dusty porch calls to her. Just as Stella calls to me.
We are all afraid, I text back. Some more than others. It takes courage to admit it.
I hit send before I change my mind. I am far more eloquent in writing than in person. I feel more like myself—somehow—when no one can hear my voice.
I pick up my guitar, strum softly. The cat stretches, moves closer. Her litter of kittens settles around her, lulled by the music. Like the cat, I bask in sunlight once again.
Stella will write me back, and then I will ask how soon I can see her again.
DAYS
— Stella —
When I wake up in the morning, I am still tired. My eyes are swollen and achy. My head pounds. I roll onto my side. But just before I close my eyes once more, I see it.
A new text message.
We are all afraid. Some more than others. It takes courage to admit it.
A current of excitement runs through me. He isn’t trying to make me feel better—he isn’t pretending. It feels so good to talk to someone. Through the shadowed aches and deep pain inside me it feels like a river flowing through a forbidden forest. Daring to enter the darkness.
I heard you call my name. Why? Did he know I would fall into the water? Hit my head? I send it. And I wait.
I had a feeling, like when you know it’s going to rain. You can smell it in the air, feel the weight of the clouds press down. It was like that. I just knew.
A feeling. A premonition.
Does that happen often?
I don’t wait long for his answer.
Sometimes. With you, it happens a lot.
A tingle runs through my stomach. What else does he have premonitions about? I want to ask, but I resist.
I stare at the phone, deciding whether to write back. Then, this:
Are you coming back to school?
Good question. I answer honestly.
Maybe next week.
Send .
His answer comes so fast, I feel like he’s sitting next to me. Are you ready to go back?
I just want to feel normal. Something about talking like this is freeing. I can be myself because he can’t see me.
I don’t know how I expect Hayden to respond. Maybe it doesn’t even matter. This is all like a game. A game that doesn’t mean anything, except that while I’m playing, I don’t want to disappear.
What is that? Normal?
I try to explain. The way I was before.
Before the accident. Before everything changed. Before.
A long moment goes by without a response. He doesn’t write back. We both know I’m not the way I was. That girl is dead.
Looks like I have to save you again.
I remember his arms around me. Holding me close. Saving me. I write back. Save me? From what?
I wait for his answer.
From yourself.
That’s the last message he sends. I keep checking. It breaks up the monotony of my geometry and history homework.
Doing homework is a better torture than sleeping. It makes me feel normal. I can still read chapters and take notes. Still make flash cards. Still research online. Normal.
I am reading about the Industrial Revolution when I glance at my phone again. I have a message.
Still pretending?
Pretending? I write back. I’m not pretending.
I’m not.
He responds immediately. Ok. If you say so.
What is that supposed to mean? I respond with a question mark.
His reply comes quickly. I bet nothing bad has ever happened to you before.
He is so wrong.
You don’t know anything , I type.
Tears burn my eyes. This time, I can’t hold them back. He thinks I am some Princess of Perfection. He has no idea what my life has been like.
How my family shattered into pieces, slicing all of us, leaving wounds that will never truly heal. Hayden doesn’t know a thing about that. He doesn’t know me. If I have been pretending, it has been that he is some hero on a white horse, riding in to save me from my fate.
But no one can save me. I see that now. Even through the haze of
We are all afraid, I text back. Some more than others. It takes courage to admit it.
I hit send before I change my mind. I am far more eloquent in writing than in person. I feel more like myself—somehow—when no one can hear my voice.
I pick up my guitar, strum softly. The cat stretches, moves closer. Her litter of kittens settles around her, lulled by the music. Like the cat, I bask in sunlight once again.
Stella will write me back, and then I will ask how soon I can see her again.
DAYS
— Stella —
When I wake up in the morning, I am still tired. My eyes are swollen and achy. My head pounds. I roll onto my side. But just before I close my eyes once more, I see it.
A new text message.
We are all afraid. Some more than others. It takes courage to admit it.
A current of excitement runs through me. He isn’t trying to make me feel better—he isn’t pretending. It feels so good to talk to someone. Through the shadowed aches and deep pain inside me it feels like a river flowing through a forbidden forest. Daring to enter the darkness.
I heard you call my name. Why? Did he know I would fall into the water? Hit my head? I send it. And I wait.
I had a feeling, like when you know it’s going to rain. You can smell it in the air, feel the weight of the clouds press down. It was like that. I just knew.
A feeling. A premonition.
Does that happen often?
I don’t wait long for his answer.
Sometimes. With you, it happens a lot.
A tingle runs through my stomach. What else does he have premonitions about? I want to ask, but I resist.
I stare at the phone, deciding whether to write back. Then, this:
Are you coming back to school?
Good question. I answer honestly.
Maybe next week.
Send .
His answer comes so fast, I feel like he’s sitting next to me. Are you ready to go back?
I just want to feel normal. Something about talking like this is freeing. I can be myself because he can’t see me.
I don’t know how I expect Hayden to respond. Maybe it doesn’t even matter. This is all like a game. A game that doesn’t mean anything, except that while I’m playing, I don’t want to disappear.
What is that? Normal?
I try to explain. The way I was before.
Before the accident. Before everything changed. Before.
A long moment goes by without a response. He doesn’t write back. We both know I’m not the way I was. That girl is dead.
Looks like I have to save you again.
I remember his arms around me. Holding me close. Saving me. I write back. Save me? From what?
I wait for his answer.
From yourself.
That’s the last message he sends. I keep checking. It breaks up the monotony of my geometry and history homework.
Doing homework is a better torture than sleeping. It makes me feel normal. I can still read chapters and take notes. Still make flash cards. Still research online. Normal.
I am reading about the Industrial Revolution when I glance at my phone again. I have a message.
Still pretending?
Pretending? I write back. I’m not pretending.
I’m not.
He responds immediately. Ok. If you say so.
What is that supposed to mean? I respond with a question mark.
His reply comes quickly. I bet nothing bad has ever happened to you before.
He is so wrong.
You don’t know anything , I type.
Tears burn my eyes. This time, I can’t hold them back. He thinks I am some Princess of Perfection. He has no idea what my life has been like.
How my family shattered into pieces, slicing all of us, leaving wounds that will never truly heal. Hayden doesn’t know a thing about that. He doesn’t know me. If I have been pretending, it has been that he is some hero on a white horse, riding in to save me from my fate.
But no one can save me. I see that now. Even through the haze of
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