I shimmied my fingertips under the garage door, lifted it up, and sat down in the passenger seat while Mom finished making her morning coffee.
I kept looking at my phone, waiting for his reply. I was cold but sweating, the sweat soaking into my ski hat.
I thought of Davis, hearing his own name on the news again. You go on, I told myself, and tried through the ether to say it to him, too.
Over the next few months, I kept going. I got better without ever quite getting well.
Daisy and I started a Mental Health Alliance and a Fan-Fiction Workshop so that we could list some proper extracurriculars
on next year’s college applications, even though we were the only two members of both clubs.
We hung out most nights, at her apartment or at Applebee’s or at my house, sometimes with Mychal but usually not—
usually it was just the two of us, watching movies or doing homework or just talking.
It was so easy to go out into the meadow with her. I missed Davis, of course.
The first few days, I kept checking my phone, waiting for him to reply, but slowly I understood that we were going to be part of each other’s past.
I still missed him, though. I missed my dad, too. And Harold. I missed everybody. To be alive is to be missing.
And then one night in April, Daisy and I were over at my house, watching the one-night-only reunion of our favorite band,
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