Page 50 of Rewriting the Story

Maybe I do. Maybe deep down, that’s the root cause of all this.

“What did you do?”

He shrugs. “I talked with my family. I started showing up for people who mattered to me, and I took a look at the people in my life and decided if they were good for me to be around.”

“And?”

“And it helped. It helped to have my girl reminding me that life is like the monkey bars. You have to take it one bar at a time, one obstacle, because trying to do it all at the same time is going to make you fall off and have to start all over.”

“How did you know where to start?” I ask him, surprised this is the most I’ve spoken with Leo since I got here. I like this guy. He’s good, despite the fact that all I knew about him was that Ella hated his guts.

“The hardest part was figuring out where to start. Everything else seemed to fall into place after that,” Leo says as he grabs his water bottle. “I think we all know what the hardest part is for you, but tread carefully. This group is special, really special, and I would hate for people to have to pick sides if you and her can't seem to rewrite your history and be civil for a week.”

“You guys don’t know the full story, but it was bad,” I say to him. “Really bad. So much so that I’m unsure what I want from her now.”

“Well then,” he says as he heads for the door, “it seems like you’ve found a place to start.”

And then the door shuts, and I’m left alone with the weight of everything we just talked about.

Not wanting to dive into this when the sun is only just coming up, I grab my room key and my wallet before I head to the breakfast bar tograb a coffee. My brain is far too tired, even though I’ve just woken up, and that needs to change. This week has barely even started.

As soon as I turn the corner and head for the coffee machine, I notice only a few other people down here, but only one short-haired, dress-wearing girl catches my eye.

It’s just like it used to be, our eyes always drawn to one another. I’ve barely moved an inch before she turns around, already sensing I’m behind her.

After a few seconds, she clears her throat and gets back to what she was doing. Four cups sit in front of her as she puts different things in them, presumably one for each of the girls and herself.

She always was an early riser, even when she went to bed in the early hours of the morning.

“I’ll be out of your way in a minute,” I hear her say as I get closer to the coffee. I grab a cup for myself, standing behind her, suddenly remembering how it used to feel when she would fall asleep on top of me, or when we would walk hand in hand around the grocery store, sharing headphones while we shopped.

I’m about three feet away from Amelia, and I can still feel the ghost of her that used to stand by my side. I can still feel her lean against me in the smallest way, but to me, it was everything.

Amelia doesn't get comfortable with people. She was never one for a lot of physical touch, but every touch, every hand that brushed mine when she slipped me one side of her headphones was like her moving a mountain just for me. It was her building a bridge between us so I could cross and really get to know her. Every piece of music we shared danced between our ears, and sometimes, it felt like she was playing songs just to say all the things she wanted to me that she couldn't form into words.

I was always better at words than she was. Amelia spoke through music, and every melody and lyric shared between us were like her writinglove letters to me through songs. Every playlist she sent to me was like getting a peek inside of her head at that time.

Our favorite song we would often send back and forth was from the band we both saw in concert the day we met. I still remember that day as if it were yesterday. It was the day everything changed for me. Here was this girl in front of me, also alone at this concert, and I just happened to run into her and spark up a conversation.

I made a stupid joke, and she rolled her eyes at me, but then she smiled, the softest smile I had ever seen, and I was a goner. Then, we ran into one another on campus because we were both taking summer classes. Eventually, we became friends, and I took everything she wanted to give me because she simply astonished me, this girl in the dress with the yellow flowers on it and a smile that could kill.

Then came the smiles she only gave me, then the moments where we shared a bit too much and she would retreat again. All I did was be there for her. All I did was let her talk because all I wanted to do was listen to her analyze the lyrics and production of different music. Her smile grew when she would talk about the music she loved.

I wonder if she still does that. I wonder if she knows I can’t listen to music the same way anymore. I doubt she knows I can’t even listen to the band we both saw in concert. It hurts too much. It brought up too many memories of her that I couldn't seem to forget.

How could I? Forget, I mean. How could I forget the first girl who ever loved me back? How could I ever forget the first girl I loved with my whole being?

“Do you often come to depressing concerts in the happiest outfit you can wear, or is this a first for you?”

First was the eye roll. Then, it was a look down at her outfit, paired with the saddest song in the band's discography.“I guess this is a first. I didn't think I had thosein me anymore.”

I never asked her what that meant. My next question was about her favorite song by the band, and we talked through the whole set until that song came on. I videoed it for her so she could go back and listen to it, but while the camera on my phone was pointed at the stage, my eyes never left the mysterious girl beside me. Then, I gave her my number so I could send it to her. She never used it, though, not until I gave her a nickname when I saw her on campus after the concert.

I would say the rest is history, but history has a funny way of repeating itself—or rather, laughing in your face. Because our story doesn't seem to be over, not yet.

“Henry? Henry!” I hear her shout as my hands start to burn. “What are you doing?”

I look down at my overflowing cup, my mind lost in the hazy memory of the stranger to my left. “Being an idiot, it seems.”

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