heat, oppression, and poverty — the world I’m writing . A life I’ve never lived, but the desperate , aching feeling in my chest pushes me further. Tells me more of his story.
There’s movement next to me, but I’m still in it. He’s twelve now and his younger brother is missing. It happens. Sometimes they’re taken. Sometimes they run away. Sometimes they just disappear. Maybe I’ll write his story next. Maybe I’ll finish with the mom’s point of view. But how do I write from the point of a view of a mom, when I’ve just lost mine? I gasp.
“You okay?” Amber whispers next to me.
“So rry.” My eyes meet hers. “I got lost. T hat’s all.”
“You’re not like this at home, are you?” She looks way too comfortable, legs crossed in front of her, leaning back on the log. H ow long have we been here?
“In my apartment, yes. Out? No.” This girl pr obably already thinks I’m insane . I t’s like honestly just pours out of my mouth. Seems stupid to try and stop it at this point.
“You’re writing?” she asks.
I nod. The iPad suddenly feels heavy in my hands. I give it to her without thin king. “I’m going to walk.”
“You want to be alone?” She pushes a few damp, sweaty stray hairs back off her face.
As I look at her, I know she won’ t be offended if I say yes. “I… I don’t know.” And it’s the truth.
She stands, the iPad in her hands , and walks slowly next to me. The sand is uneven, but there’s a lot mo re of it than there was earlier. T he tide’s going out— another sign we’ve been here longer than I realized. She’s staring at the screen, clutching it tightly . I try not to think about her reading what I wrot e. I guess me handing it to her was sort of an invitation. I didn’t mean for it to be. But I also don’t mind. Way too late for me to make a good first impression anyway .
I stuff my hands in my pockets and keep to the sand that’s still damp. It’s easier to walk here. My chest is so weighted and so tight, that it still feels like I’m concentrating on each breath. The air is cold, but the warmth from the sun penetrates my black jacket. The wet sand meets the dry sand, which meets stacks of driftwood and rocks, and then fores t— huge old trees stand tall against the graying sky.
Mom would love this.
The thought’s h ard and heavy. Will it always be ? Every time I see or feel or think about something she’d love, will I feel it like this? I blink a few times and press my palm to the outside edges of my eyes. I need to shove this away. But before I can, Amber’s arms are around me, holding me tightly.
There’s no think ing, only pulling her as close as I can. I breathe in her damp hair . S he’s still sweaty from running, and I love it. I love that she doesn’t care. Her arms are strong, and we’re both holding on, like we’ve become the anchor for the other.
My body shakes once. The shadow of Mom’s death hangs, hovers , and threaten s to take over. Shove it away, Antony. P ush it down. A sobfest won’t help anything.
“Sorry.” I jerk away, my heart racing. No way am I going to stand on some beach and cry while hugging a girl I barely know.
“Don’t be sorry .” Her forehead’s wrinkled in something that looks like confusion. “You wrote this?”
“This morning.” I nod, pressing my hands to my eyes one last time, pulling in a breath to contain the grief inside, in the cage that’s stro nger by the day. I’m doing good. E ventually it’ll disappear. It has to. No one could live a whole life feeling as suffocated as I feel now.
“This is amazing. You know that, right?” Her crystal blue eyes see way too far into me.
“I haven’t read it,” I say. That seems like a safe enough answer. I know I have a good way of putting words together. I’m still slowing my heart.
“Hmm.” She folds the case over . “Thanks for letting me read .”
I don’t say anything, just keep walking next to her.
“You’ll always miss
There’s movement next to me, but I’m still in it. He’s twelve now and his younger brother is missing. It happens. Sometimes they’re taken. Sometimes they run away. Sometimes they just disappear. Maybe I’ll write his story next. Maybe I’ll finish with the mom’s point of view. But how do I write from the point of a view of a mom, when I’ve just lost mine? I gasp.
“You okay?” Amber whispers next to me.
“So rry.” My eyes meet hers. “I got lost. T hat’s all.”
“You’re not like this at home, are you?” She looks way too comfortable, legs crossed in front of her, leaning back on the log. H ow long have we been here?
“In my apartment, yes. Out? No.” This girl pr obably already thinks I’m insane . I t’s like honestly just pours out of my mouth. Seems stupid to try and stop it at this point.
“You’re writing?” she asks.
I nod. The iPad suddenly feels heavy in my hands. I give it to her without thin king. “I’m going to walk.”
“You want to be alone?” She pushes a few damp, sweaty stray hairs back off her face.
As I look at her, I know she won’ t be offended if I say yes. “I… I don’t know.” And it’s the truth.
She stands, the iPad in her hands , and walks slowly next to me. The sand is uneven, but there’s a lot mo re of it than there was earlier. T he tide’s going out— another sign we’ve been here longer than I realized. She’s staring at the screen, clutching it tightly . I try not to think about her reading what I wrot e. I guess me handing it to her was sort of an invitation. I didn’t mean for it to be. But I also don’t mind. Way too late for me to make a good first impression anyway .
I stuff my hands in my pockets and keep to the sand that’s still damp. It’s easier to walk here. My chest is so weighted and so tight, that it still feels like I’m concentrating on each breath. The air is cold, but the warmth from the sun penetrates my black jacket. The wet sand meets the dry sand, which meets stacks of driftwood and rocks, and then fores t— huge old trees stand tall against the graying sky.
Mom would love this.
The thought’s h ard and heavy. Will it always be ? Every time I see or feel or think about something she’d love, will I feel it like this? I blink a few times and press my palm to the outside edges of my eyes. I need to shove this away. But before I can, Amber’s arms are around me, holding me tightly.
There’s no think ing, only pulling her as close as I can. I breathe in her damp hair . S he’s still sweaty from running, and I love it. I love that she doesn’t care. Her arms are strong, and we’re both holding on, like we’ve become the anchor for the other.
My body shakes once. The shadow of Mom’s death hangs, hovers , and threaten s to take over. Shove it away, Antony. P ush it down. A sobfest won’t help anything.
“Sorry.” I jerk away, my heart racing. No way am I going to stand on some beach and cry while hugging a girl I barely know.
“Don’t be sorry .” Her forehead’s wrinkled in something that looks like confusion. “You wrote this?”
“This morning.” I nod, pressing my hands to my eyes one last time, pulling in a breath to contain the grief inside, in the cage that’s stro nger by the day. I’m doing good. E ventually it’ll disappear. It has to. No one could live a whole life feeling as suffocated as I feel now.
“This is amazing. You know that, right?” Her crystal blue eyes see way too far into me.
“I haven’t read it,” I say. That seems like a safe enough answer. I know I have a good way of putting words together. I’m still slowing my heart.
“Hmm.” She folds the case over . “Thanks for letting me read .”
I don’t say anything, just keep walking next to her.
“You’ll always miss
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