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Glibby prances up my bed and curls up next to me, catching my tears in her fur as I scroll up to the very first photo Laine and I took together. Then, I scroll through each picture onward and replay the memory of the moment in my head.

It starts on the drive to the cabin. Just a photo our moms took of us accidentally falling asleep on each other’s shoulders. Then, at the cabin, a candid shot of the wild expression on her face right as her Jenga tower collapsed. Next, a photo of our pumpkins. Mine, terrible. Hers, a work of art, of course.

My eyes scan the grid for a photo from the lake until I realize we forgot to bring our phones when we went half skinny dipping, living only in the moment like time really had stopped, because without phones or watches or anything outside of us, it truly felt timeless.

The photos then transition from all of the Christmasy things we did to the night we went stargazing. As I run through our months together, I let the pictures become a visual progression of our story. The events play through my head, and I come to the most soul-crushing revelation.

I’m romanticizing our time together because I don’t know if I have it in me to hate her.

I want to yell at her and tell her all over again how she broke my heart and left me with a pain that feels impossible to overcome. How I can’t wait to get over her. How I can’t wait until I no longer fear that I won’t be able to find someone prettier than her.

But worst of all, I want to curl up in her arms and ruin another one of her shirts with my tears. I want to feel the comfort in her smell, the familiar way her body feels against mine, the pressure of her bony, paint-stained fingers on my back as she gently scratches my favorite spots.

Once I finally decide to stop torturing myself with my camera roll, I go to her social media page. I know I shouldn’t, and maybe it’s my own masochistic form of emotional self-harm, but I can’t help it. I need to know what she’s up to, or if she’s doing okay without me.

I know there’s nothing new since the last time I checked, and I’m never going to heal if I keep the old what-ifs in my mind, but after a month of avoiding this, I feel like I deserve it. Just one check. Even if I already know the answer, I need to make sure again anyway.

To my surprise—and detriment—there’s a new post. It’s a photo carousel of her time at Holy Trinity. The first photo is of her standing next to the community gallery exhibit sign. She’s smiling, the same gleam in her eyes from the photos in my camera roll. The next photo is the very painting I despise, hanging on the filthy exhibit walls by a small, thin frame. Next, she and a few other girls giggling in a circle, each with an open bible in their lap.

When I get to the final photo, my chest sinks. It’s her, grinning with the same toothy grin I had grown to love. Except there’s a blonde boy standing on the opposite side of a Valentine’s Day banner, a toothpick hanging from his mouth like he belongs out in the sticks instead of in Holy Trinity’s predominantly wealthy area code. I immediately recognize it’s that Donovan kid she’d been talking about.

Because my mind hates me, it reminds me of the possibility that she probably still carves our initials together all over town, except the D stands for Donovan instead of Drew. Instantly, any anger I had pent up in my stomach turns to straight-up numbness.

In her new post, I can’t help but notice pieces, remnants, of her that I fell in love with before. Behind all the fake smiles, behind the bible clutched to her heart, behind her smile toward him so openly in the way that she never did toward me, I know the girl I love and the girl who once made me feel loved back is still in there somewhere. I think that’s what hurts the most. Knowing she’s stillher,but I’ve lost her to the Lord.

I click on the last photo slowly, careful not to double-click it, and pull up the tagged account. Donovan’s profile picture is of him in a bulky jersey, holding out a football like it’s a trophy. The bio includes his birth year, a fish emoji, a smiling emoji, and then a bible verse. Right above the bible verse readsGod first.Below the verse, he’s tagged Laine’s account, and there’s a heart next toit. My anger returns as I think of what could possibly make this idiot football boy more deserving of getting the girl than me.

He loves God, then he loves her.

I just love her. I don’t want to believe in a God that tells me I can’t.

I sigh, clicking back to Laine’s original post. Just as I’m about to click out of the post altogether, I decide against my better judgment and open the comments. I expect to find Donovan spamming cringey heart emojis or the girls from the giggle circle commentingso cute, girlie!

Instead, however, the comments are flooded with messages likeI’m so sorry!andYou didn’t deserve any of that!andWhy must awful things happen to such sweet people!I scroll faster, but it’s only the same comments over and over again from different people who all share the same beach wave haircut and awful fake spray tan.

Immediately, my mind goes to the worst-case scenarios. Laine got hurt. Someone spread a false, nasty rumor about her around the church. Everyone found out about us and thinks I’m a predator who preyed on poor, sweet, innocent Laine. Someone ran her over. Okay, maybe that last one is a bit far-fetched. But still, any of the first three could have happened.

Just as I’m running through all possibilities, Tatum texts in the group chat, almost as if she’s reading my mind.

Tatum

2:52 pm

DID YOU GUYS SEE WHAT HAPPENED TO LAINE’S PAINTING?

Jared

2:52 pm

wait no????

what happened??

Greyson

2:53 pm

Hey guys, touchy subject okay? Don’t poke the bear.