I wanted to devour a hundred books in one day.

A week later, another book appeared on my bed.

Then another.

It became a thing.

I never asked him to do it. He never mentioned it. But every few weeks, a book would show up. And I would read it.

Because I wanted to.

I like the way you hum when you read

That one made me blush. I hadn’t even realized I did that.

I wish I was braver

That one made my heart stop.

I stared at it for what felt like forever, my fingers brushing over the faint pencil mark. I read it again, whispering the words under my breath like I was trying to memorize them.

I wish I was braver.

Braver for what?

I never asked him.

I probably should have, but something told me the answer would change everything, and I wasn’t ready for that. Not yet.

So, I read his words and kept them close, tucked them into the quiet spaces of my heart where no one else could see them.

10

BLAKE, 1997

16 years old

I tried to read. Really, I did.

But the words blurred together, swirling in a mess of letters and sentences that my eyes skimmed over without any real understanding. I’d glance at a line, and by the time my gaze moved to the next, I couldn’t even recall what I’d just read.

I tried again. Flipped back a page, then another, hoping that something would finally stick, but the words remained elusive, as if they were just out of my reach, mocking me with their refusal to settle in my mind.

It wasn’t the book’s fault.

Normally, I would have been lost in it by now, but tonight, my mind wouldn’t let me sink into the story. It wouldn’t let me slip into that peaceful oblivion that a good story always brought.

Instead, it kept drifting—back to Beverly, to the way she stared at those underlined words like they held the meaning of the universe, to the way she bit her lip when she was thinking too hard, to the way she looked at me over the past few weeks.

My mind replayed the message I had left her.

I wish I was braver.

I knew I shouldn’t have left it at that. I should’ve added a joke, softened the weight of it. But I didn’t. Because it wasn’t a joke.

With a sigh, I shut the book, rubbing a hand down my face.

The red numbers on my nightstand clock blinked back at me in the dim light.

2:07 AM.

Sleep wasn’t coming anytime soon. There was something in the air tonight, a shift I couldn’t quite put my finger on but could feel pressing down on me, gnawing at the edges of my thoughts.

Beverly was supposed to be at Tiffany’s.

A “sleepover”—that’s what she’d told Mom.