Page 275 of Every Breath After

I know they still have their bad days—days where they doubt if they made the right decision accepting what we were told. Days where they feel guilty for putting you to rest, and trying to move forward.

Me too, I guess. Though I don’t really let myself think about any of it. In my head, you’re gone…dead…but also not? Idfk

I know, I know—not healthy. But it is what it is right now.

You’ll be happy to know I’m back in therapy though, and I’ve upped my meds.

One of the big things I’m working on right now in therapy is rewiring my tendencies to bottle up my emotions. Apparently I have an unhealthy tendency to not only intellectualize my feelings—hence why I feel nothing at all—but I also use other people’s pain to mask my own. Shocker, right?

But truth is…I don’t really wanna think how big of a deal all of this is. College. Being on my own. Leaving Shiloh and the only home I’ve ever known. Losing my childhood home and all its memories. Leaving Mason…

I’m afraid I’ll back out if I dwell on it. Afraid I’ll beg our parents to keep the house—stay—when I know how hard it is for them. Hell, it’s hard for me.

But then again, I’ve always been a bit of a masochist.

Mason was supposed to come home in time for Thanksgiving, but he decided to extend his stay in rehab.

Is it wrong that I’m relieved that I won’t have to face him before I leave?

We haven’t talked. Not since the hospital. Waylon said I could call him, but I’ve yet to build up the courage. I’m worried I’ll somehow fuck with his progress.

Okay, fine, I’m just being a coward. I’m worried if I tell him I’m going to college—leaving Shiloh–I’ll lose my courage to go. This way, I won’t have to face him until it’s already too late. I’ll be gone.

I fucking hate this. You should be here.

Merry Christmas, Iz. I love you. And I miss you. I hope you’re at peace. I really, really do. Even if it means I might never find any again.

Tomorrow’s the day. I begged Mom and Dad not to make a big deal of it, and while they mostly respected my wishes…they still decided to throw me a small going away party tonight. And by small, I mean it was just them and Waylon and his cousin Ivy.

For the first time in years, the house was filled with music again. Laughter. It was…nice. But bittersweet to say the least.

Waylon didn’t stay long, but I didn’t expect him to. Out of the three of us—Mason, Waylon, and me—he has the hardest time coming around the house. There’s this…rift between him and Mom and Dad, I’m not sure they will ever be able to repair.

Ivy hung out for a while longer though. I guess you’d say we’re friends? Maybe? I don’t really know when that happened.

I told myself when I moved out, I’d delete this number. Delete this entire thread of texts. It’s not like your number’s even connected anymore. But every time I go to delete it, something stops me.

I was never one for journaling, and putting words to what I was feeling and dealing with. It was easier to turn it into art—into something fictional and manageable. Personifying my anxiety into a monster for a superhero to defeat, rather than spell it out…dig too deep…

I was worried what truths would spill out. What secrets I would discover about myself. So long as I didn’t face them head on, I could pretend they didn’t exist.

The thing is… I’m in love with Mason, and I have been for years. Longer than is probably normal or healthy, but it is what it is.

So there you have it. Finally. The ugly truth in all its raw, pathetic glory.

AGE 19, JANUARY

“Well, hello,” a deep voice drawls over the music blasting from my phone.

Startled, I whirl from where I was in the middle of hanging a Chevelle poster above my bed, the shotty mattress creaking with my weight.

At the sight of my roommate, Gabe, I deflate.

That is, until I notice what he’s holding, and my gaze drops to the now-open Converse shoebox on my desk. The one overflowing with old Polaroids and photos before cellphones were a thing, concert tickets, movie tickets…

All the sentimental shit I’ve accumulated over my life, thrown into a cardboard box like a total cliché.

Tensing, I say, “Gimme that.”

---