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“He wasn't in the room any longer, but his presence still lingered over the rest of us. It’s like we were waiting for him to come back and tell us what to do, our family frozen in time and unsure of where to go without his instruction.” — In A Room With Death , Henry Hayes

Haunted eyes are all I can see when I wake up, the sun not even risen yet.

I would try to go back to sleep, but there’s no point. Once I’m up for the day, I usually can’t force myself back to sleep.

After my shower, I sit at my computer, fully prepared for nothing to come out when I set my sprint timer for twenty minutes. But to my surprise, the characters take over, and twenty minutes later, I’ve written a thousand words.

One thousand words. It’s probably been months since I was able to sit down and write that many at once. Before I can even think about it, I pick up my phone.

Henry: One thousand words this morning.

Mitch: Holy shit. Should I call your publisher?

Henry: Very funny.

Mitch: Proud of you, buddy. I take it things are going well?

That’s not really the truth, but if it means I’m writing again, I would call that going well. I’ve got a small part of my groove back, and that is cause for celebrating.

Henry: Well enough, I guess. Getting words in is always good.

Mitch: Just take care of yourself first. The manuscript can always wait until after the trip with your ex and all your old friends.

Henry: I’m going to get a coffee. I’ll be around later if you want to call.

Mitch: Sounds good.

I stretch a little bit before I get up, and as I head into the main part of the suite, I run into Leo, who’s not only shirtless, but about to make a smoothie of some sort, based on all the fruit he has on the counter.

“Ah, I thought I heard typing somewhere. I figured that was you. Grant types far more like a madman when he’s working on his fanfiction.”

“Sorry, what?” I hold back my laughter, but in all honesty, Grant writing fanfiction makes the most sense in the world.

Leo merely shrugs. “Probably best for him to tell you. I’m sure he’s not mentioned it because he looks up to you.”

“That’s nice of him, but he really shouldn't. I can barely write these days. I might be a two-hit wonder.”

He shakes his head as he cuts up a banana. I move close to the counter, not wanting to wake the other two with our conversation.

“Is that what you think?”

“Yeah,” I say as I sit on a bar stool. “I didn't mean to bombard you with my shit, so I’ll just—”

“I don’t mind, mate. Plus, I barely know you, so maybe it’s a little easier with me than the other two.

I’m sure Grant would kiss your arse; he’s read both of your books multiple times and won’t shut up about them.

Oliver is okay to go to for advice on occasion, but he doesn't care about anything but his almost wife right now. That leaves me, clearly the smartest, most intelligent one of the group.” He slaps me on the shoulder.

“You’ve chosen wisely, Henry. So, what do you need from me?

A shoulder to cry on? An ear to listen?”

“Maybe just a listener for now,” I say as he throws all his stuff into the blender.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me, but I can’t write.

When I wrote my first two books, they sort of…

came out of my mind. It wasn't as difficult for the words to come out, but now, it feels like work when it used to feel like the easiest thing in the world. It feels like my job, rather than this thing I love and grew up wanting to do. ”

Leo simply nods as he turns the blender on, his smoothie mixing as I feel my shoulders relax a little bit. It felt weird to admit that, but it’s the truth. All I wanted to do was write and make a living off it, but now that I’m actually doing that, it’s harder than I wanted it to be.

It all feels pointless—the words, the characters, the book—when it’s just me celebrating and then moving onto the next one.

All my accomplishments seem…small. They seem little and pointless, even though some people would kill to be where I’m at.

I’m twenty-five, and I’ve already crossed dreams off my list of where I’d thought I’d be by the time I was forty.

I should be happy. I should be thriving and writing until my fingers hurt, but every time I sit down at my laptop, my brain goes blank, and I have to force myself not to get up and do something else.

“Can I be honest?”

“Of course,” I tell him, already weary of his tone.

“I didn't know you back when the girls and the other two did. So, from the outside looking in, I’ve never seen anyone else with the look in your eyes.”

“What look?”

“I can’t really describe it. I’d guess I’d call it weighted, if I were to assign a word to it. But you’re the writer here, not me.”

That makes me laugh. “Some days, I barely feel like one.”

“I’ve had that look you have in your eyes. I’ve felt it.”

“Felt what?”

“Not thinking you’re good enough. Not really knowing where you belong.

Scared of where you’ll end up if all you have are your accomplishments,” he says as he scoops his smoothie into a bowl.

“If I were you, I would try and figure out what it’s going to take to let that go, because it's going to do much more harm than good. ”

I sit and really think about what he’s said. Do I think about all those things? Do I think that, on my own, I’m not good enough? That I don't deserve to have all these good things around me?

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 to grab 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 writing love 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 those in 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.”

“Here,” she says as she hands me a bunch of napkins before disappearing. Before I think she's not going to come back, she returns with a small ice pack she places on my hand. “For the pain.”

I stop myself from laughing at how ironic her saying that to me, of all people, is. Instead, I take a deep breath.

Her hand lingers against my skin for a beat too long, but neither of us mentions it. She doesn't note how she used to brush her hand against mine in a silent plea to hold hands—because she would never outright ask. I don’t mention how good it feels to have her touch against my skin again.

“Thanks,” is all I say.

She opens her mouth to say something but then stops herself, looking at the four cups she has before speaking again.

“I should get these to the girls.”

“Do you want any help?”

She shakes her head. “No, I’ve got it. Just ice your hand and be more careful next time. ”

Be more careful with the coffee or with being in your orbit, Amelia? Which one do you mean, because I know I’ll never get an answer from you?

“I will.”

As I watch her walk away, I realize the place I have to start.

I need an answer. An explanation. I need anything Amelia will give me as to why she did what she did, because I don’t think I’ll ever move on or figure out anything else without that.

It’s going to hurt, I know it will. If the hurt is what I need to move to a new phase of my life away from Amelia, though, I’ll do anything, even damage my own mental health, to pry an answer out of her as to why she broke my heart and never looked back.