I grab a shower, do my laundry, try to call Dad (and get his voice mail. Again), and enjoy a balanced meal of Reese’s Puffs. There are still grave sketches hanging on my pinboard from the week after I met Joe. I glance at them, and something inside me wilts, because Joe was right. When we don’t see each other, we don’t create. And when I don’t create, I feel underwater.

It is only when I go back to the living room to turn off all the lights before I slip into bed that I see there is something I missed all along. A batch of A4 papers that’s been shoved through the crack under the door. One of them is even stamped with my boot print. I fall to my knees and collect them. I don’t need to guess what they are. What they mean. I know.

I grab the scattered pages. They’re out of order. Of course Joe wouldn’t bother with a stapler. It’s all handwritten, a violent cyclone of blue and black ink. He must’ve gone through several pens.

After picking up the pages with shaky hands, I start reading snippets.

. . . it was Kerouac’s fault, of course. He was the one who said that writers needed new experiences like flowers need the sun. He was the one who made young Jack hit the road and drive past state limits, past cornfields and skyscrapers. Past horizons. And so, inevitably, he was the one who pushed Jack to meet her.

. . . some nights, after Jack lost his car and had to hitchhike his way, he’d lay on a patch of grass, staring into the sky. He dreamed of ripping a hole in it. Slipping through it. Disappearing into another, better universe. One where people who should be together stay together. He’d bathed in dirty ponds and ate from trash cans. And yet, his most desperate moment had occurred under the night sky. So clear and pure and full of stars. He closed his eyes and saw her. A girl. Or maybe she was a woman at this point. Whoever she was, he belonged to her. But she no longer belonged to him.

And then I find it. The first page. It has a yellow Post-it Note attached to it. There is only one word on it, written in a red Sharpie.

PLEASE.

The word feels like a sword has been dipped in my chest. I want to pick up the phone and fight with him, but I don’t have his number. I want to find his social media accounts and message him, but he doesn’t have any—I checked. I want to . . . I want to go to his building, to his apartment, and give him a piece of my mind, but he is in Dover right now, at his parents’.