Page 102 of All Your Firsts

You could show me thousands of handwritten notes, and I’d still be able to distinguish it from the rest.

How the pressure exerted practically engraves the letters into the paper.

How the letters smudge from him being left-handed and not giving it enough time to dry.

The way he never crosses all the way through his t’s.

No.

This—this can’t be.

I run to my room and throw open my drawer, collecting the letters from Rush. I lay them out, side by side, and it’s clear as day. Hysterical tears threaten to spill from my eyes.

There has to be a plausible reason for this.

Maybe they have the same handwriting? I mean, that can happen, right?

I run back to Vic’s room and head straight for his nightstand drawers, opening all six but finding nothing.

This is silly. What am I doing?

I sit on the bed and blow out a breath before looking at his closet.

My intuition is telling me something isn’t right.

I enter the closet and open his top drawer, filled with black boxer briefs. My hand dives in, sifting through the contents, making a mess but coming up empty.

The second drawer houses socks, and I show them just as much care as his top drawer. My fingers graze against something that crinkles, and I pause.

I pull out a paper bag. Since this was hiding in his drawer of the home he lives in by himself, it can’t be good.

I open it, and I see paper bundled up in a rubber band.

Before I pull them all the way out, I know. I just know.

These are my letters.

The first tear falls before I even process I’m crying.

On the top sits a picture of me, worn at the edges as if it has been touched a million times. It’s an old one from college.

Way before I came to town.

Way before I thought I knew him.

Way before I fell for him.

Under the letters is the final nail to my heart, a black and red devil mask I’ve seen before.

The sudden onslaught of nausea floods my body, leaving my stomach unsettled and churning.

“No,” I say to myself as I shake my head. “This can’t—”

I can’t believe this.

The sound of footsteps reaches my ears just moments before I catch sight of him.

I’m rooted in place. A statue ready to crumble. My grasp tightens around the lies I hold.

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