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She’s a stalker?

She’s arrogant.

She ALWAYS has to be right.

She’s mean.She’s a LITERAL bully.

She thinks she knows me, but she doesn’t. It’s annoying.

She walks around like she owns the place in a skirt that is way too short to be practical.

She makes me act like someone I don’t recognize.

So it’s not a very long list…yet. And maybe it’s a bit immature. But this is what I’ve devolved into at her hands. At least I don’t pretend to know all about her, not like she does me. I bet if she had a list, it would be filled out with all the lies she tells herself about me. She says I’m hot and cold but it’s not just me. We’re both responsible for making things messier than they need to be.

Warmer, colder. Warmer, colder.

Closer, farther. Closer, farther.

Around and around each other we go.

Up until the last few weeks at least. The first few days after our fight were easy, all the fresh wounds of her malicious words and baseless accusations still tender and raw. But as the days have gone on—and on, and on, and on, and despite the quietude, her absence is loud.

The days are long, no matter how many abandoned hobbies I try to pick up—that old calligraphy set finally got some use—or meaningless challenges I set for myself—apparently, I’ll just never be skilled at makeup—there’s nothing that fills the void she’s left. Being dead gives us nothing but time—time to regret, time to mourn, time to yearn, but also time to face my past.

I guess there’s no more running from it; it’s time to go dig up the part of my life that I stuck beneath the floorboards—where nobody would find it, where I’d be able to forget about it. Years have passed since I’ve allowed myself to look back on everything that happened at the end of seventh grade. My memories are foggy covered by the sheets I’ve draped over them in hopes ofmoving on. But if I want to get out of this cycle, I need to clean out my attic.

Like a child sneaking around, I peer under my bedroom door, trying to see if there’s anyone in the hallway or approaching from either direction. No shadows creep closer and the silence remains steady, so I quickly travel from mine to Aiden’s room.

I’m greeted by iconic images of Queen, Def Leppard, and ACDC, all his posters and vinyls still lining the wall. The wrinkles from where he sat on the edge of his bed to lace up his combat boots still crease his charcoal comforter. Aesthetically, it’s like he never left, but without his energy buzzing within it, the room is distinctly empty. Luckily for me, he didn’t take much, which makes my work easy when it comes to finding what I’m looking for. At the top of his closet is my seventh-grade yearbook, the one he took after it was ruined by our classmates.

It weighs twenty pounds now that it’s in my grasp; the heft of the shame makes my bones ache with the effort it takes to hold it. My plan is to take it back to my room, but the edge of the yearbook swipes some of Aiden’s sketchbooks that sit on his desk. The subsequent thump is enough to make me drop the book in surprise. I don’t dare grab it, though, as my dad enters the room wide-eyed and defensive.