Page 11 of Their Arrangement

My best friend.

My almost-sister.

The girl who once swore she’d never leave me behind.

And did.

Or maybe... I left her.

The last time I saw her, we argued.

Over nothing.

She wanted to take me out—some party, a rooftop loungeopening. Something loud and ridiculous and beautiful in the way everything she touched was.

I had the flu. Couldn’t keep down water. Couldn’t sit up without shaking.

I told her to stay. To skip it.

“I’ll stay,” she said, brushing my curls back from my face. “It’s not important.”

But I told her to go.

I told her I’d be fine.

She kissed my forehead. Laughed.

“One drink. I’ll be careful.”

That was the last thing she ever said to me.

I reached out without thinking. My fingertips grazed the edge of the frame. Cold glass. Warmer metal. I didn’t touch her face. Couldn’t. I pressed my fingers to the background, to the shadow behind her, like maybe I could absorb the moment she existed into my palm.

A lump built in my throat. Thick and useless. I wanted to press my forehead to the glass, to say something—anything—but the words wouldn’t come.

What could I say?

I’m sorry I didn’t make it to the funeral until the last minute?

I’m sorry I left the reception without a word?

I’m sorry I couldn’t face what you became—ashes and memory?

I swallowed it all.

Like I always did.

I didn’t hear the footsteps behind me until they stopped just a few feet away.

A pause.

No movement.

Just presence.

Then—

“She hated that photo.”