Page 113 of Every Breath After

Don’t speak in class.

My eyes pop open wide, when comprehension rolls through me, I nearly catapult off the bed, held in place only by my sister.

The song.

My song.

Izzy’s snoring softly, and I do my best not to jostle her too much and wake her as I stretch and reach for my phone on the floor. My fingers fumble over it, but I manage to scoop it up and bring it to my chest.

I glance down as Izzy, her eyelids fluttering ever so gently. Breaths puffing out evenly against my shoulder.

Ignoring the dozen missed call notifications when I flip it open, I pull up my messages, finding several back to back texts from Mason.

Mase Face

WRU?

R u ok????

J pls tell me ur ok

My chest tightens with a combination of grief, and something more sinister. Something that has the corners of my lips rising, and warmth shooting through my veins. With one hand, I slowly, quietly, carefully thumb the number pad, typing out my response.

obv im not gonna speak in class. I have social anxiety

A moment passes where I wonder if he’ll respond. Maybe he thinks I took it literally?

But then an incoming message appears, and I have to suck in a laugh.

dont speak at all

lips are sealed

I mean it

I know. me too

Promise?

Promise

Closing the phone, I set it next to my leg, and reach for my iPod. Sliding the headphones back up over my ears, I find a different playlist of mine—the one I usually listen to when I’m drawing or torturing myself with peeks of that rippling black void—and I find the song I need.

Just like all those years ago, guitar twang and snare drums explode in my ears, and I find myself grinning up at Saturn as Eddie Vedder starts singing a moment later about being home, and drawing pictures…

Light catches the corner of my eye, and I feel a short vibration against my leg.

Biting my lip, I flip open my phone and click on the new message, my lip twitching and my stomach somersaulting at the words scrolled across the screen.

Gnight jeremy the wicked

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

AGE 16, DECEMBER

It’s not fair.

Teeth gritted in frustration, my fingers slam down on the keys in one deafening, discordant, punctuating note that plummets the basement into silence.

---