Page 114 of Abyss

Temporary.

Disposable.

Short-lived.

I now understand why Hudson never returned my proclamation of love. Or why he never broached the subject of my move. Or even why he acted so aloof in front of Madison right now.

I understand it now.

Just a little too late.

I was the one who refused to believe it before, who kept thinking we had a chance. That we could beat the odds. It was I who buried the red flags, telling me we were coming to an end. And it was I who thought I could see it all so clearly—usand our happily ever after.

But it’s me who's been wearing a blindfold this whole time.

An hour and a half later,I shut the door to my childhood bedroom, having excused myself from a conversation with my mom that I couldn’t handle at the moment.

She could tell something was wrong, given I was home on a Wednesday night when I had work the next day, but I gave her a vague explanation about missing home and wanting to spend time here before leaving for Portland.

I’m pretty sure she didn’t fully buy it, but she was so busy trying to fix her broken toaster, she let it slide.

With shards of glass caught inside my throat, I blink slowly, taking in my small familiar room—my bed with its strawberry-printed comforter, the delicate-looking lamp on my nightstand, and the keepsake box sitting on my flimsy dresser.

My feet drag over the carpet as I cover the distance to my dresser, bringing the box toward me.

I haven’t opened it in years . . . a decade, maybe.

Lifting the lid, I peer inside as my heart races through a hazy field of memories. There’s a part of me that wants to slam the box shut and bury this need, these feelings, but I can’t resist the pull today, either.

What is this urge to open it?

I have plenty of reminders of him—his ring, his shirt, his oversized blazer. Every email I’ve written to an account I created for him, pretending he’d be reading on the other side.

But this . . . this was a reminder I’d promised myself I’d never revisit.

And yet, somehow, like it’s a call, a beckoning from deep within me—him?---I decide to confront all my ghosts today.

To unravel completely so I can stitch myself back again.

With shaky hands, I pluck the folded-up piece of paper and bring it to my nose.

It no longer smells like him, though I swear it did the firsttime I’d held it. And that realization, that I’ve forgotten his scent, bubbles out of me in a choked sob.

“I miss you,” I whisper through trembling lips, tracing his familiar handwriting—Special K—alongside the words,Your mountain is waiting! So . . . get on with your day!scribbled underneath it.

They’d handed it to me a few days after his death. Who’s they? I honestly can’t recall; a teacher, perhaps. They’d found it inside Nathan’s locker, and after talking to some other students, they’d surmised it was for me.

Sniffling, I open the note, but something—God knows what—has my head lifting toward my small walk-in closet.

And for reasons I don’t quite understand—perhaps to both unbury my ghosts and face all my fears alone—I find myself hobbling toward it, clutching my phone tightly in my other hand.

Taking a shuddering breath and working through the panic rising inside me, I step inside the dark, enclosed space, shutting the door behind me.

I can do this.

I will do this.

Falling to the floor and finding a wall behind me as an anchor, I heave in a few gulps of air, feeling like there’s already a shortage of oxygen. A frenzy awakens at the outskirts of my mind, urging me to run, to free myself, but a voice inside comforts me, telling me I’m safe, that the fear is all in my head.

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