When I wake up on Sunday morning, Mason is gone. There’s a note lying in the spot he previously occupied on the couch, scrawled in his bold handwriting, as if he knew the first thing I would do in the morning is look for him.

Thank you.

Those two simple words cause something to stir in my chest, and the events of last night come flooding back. For weeks, Mason has felt like this illusive, unreachable part of my past, haunting my dreams and many of my waking thoughts, but all of a sudden, he’s real and tangible.

I had been under the impression that we were two vastly different people, but now it seems as though we might’ve been cut from the same cloth. I wonder how different our lives would’ve been if we were able to connect through our trauma rather than be driven apart by it.

The majority of the day is slow, the minutes dripping like honey from a jar, and I slum around the house, too lazy to do anything beyond that. I check on Audrey, confirming by her pulse that she’s just extremely hungover and not dead. Eventually, I force myself to do some schoolwork, and it isn’t until the evening that I finally have the motivation to do something about my hygiene.

Under the piping hot water of the shower, I wash away the less than stellar remnants of the night before. My skull pounds persistently and my limbs move with a zombielike stiffness, proving my body wasn’t truly ready for a night of clubbing and drinking.

After stepping out of the shower, I towel off and throw on a sweatshirt and a pair of leggings before heading upstairs, the ends of my hair dampening my shoulders.

The door to my room is open, and to my surprise, Audrey is sitting on my bed, next to a basket of laundry. She looks up as I enter.

“Hey.” I greet her, my voice doing little to mask my surprise. “Nice to see you awake and doing things. I didn’t think you’d join the land of the living at all today.”

She doesn’t answer, and I grab a brush from my dresser. Standing in front of the mirror, I run it through my hair, brushing out the tangles, but the sight of Audrey in my periphery stops me in my tracks. Her shoulders are hunched, and she still hasn’t said anything.

Finally, she speaks, her voice thick.

“How could you?”

Frowning, I slowly turn around, catching sight of the look on her face. Her expression is crestfallen, tears glittering in her eyes, and a bad feeling rises in my chest. It’s only then that I notice the paper she’s holding in her trembling hands.

“What is that?”