I start to open it. He stops me, holding a palm to the cover. “Don’t read it here. Just…you don’t have to read it at all, actually. But every time during the last few years, when I thought of something I wanted to tell you, I’d write it down. That’s what’s in here. So, yeah. Hate me, I deserve it. Mistakes, I’ve made plenty. But don’t ever think I forgot about you. That I didn’t care. That you’ve ever meant nothing to me. I know you won’t believe me if I just tell you that. So here’s the proof, if you want it.”

Before I can say a word in response, he’s turning and walking away.

I’m not the only one who tracks his movements down the hallway. But I’m the only one holding a notebook of his thoughts.

* * *

I end up in the library, which has been my sanctuary throughout all of high school. A peaceful, sacred space. I walk to my favorite table, spread my homework out, and then pull the notebook out of the laptop compartment of my backpack where I stored it.

Stare at it.

I glance around, like someone might be reading over my shoulder. There are a few other people around, but no one nearby. I open to the first page, smiling at the messy scribble covering the neat lines.

Made the shot from just past the marigolds Mrs. Lowe planted. You would have missed. That’s the first entry.

My dad was only home for six days this time. Trips are getting longer. Sydney probably told you that, is the second.

They go on and on. Pages of increasingly neat lettering detailing comments about basketball. About his friends. About his dad. About Sydney.

There’s never anything about other girls, but there’s a lot about me.

You should wear your hair down more often.

Finn made a comment about dating you and I shoved him into the lockers. Probably wouldn’t actually have told you that, is a recent entry.

It takes me a couple of hours to read through and reach the last page that has writing on it. It’s close to the end of the notebook that contains years’ worth of thoughts. None of the entries are dated. But there are small clues scattered throughout that hint at timing. Entries that mention prom and Homecoming. Holidays and certain classes.

The final entry is separated from the one before it by three lines, instead of one. The letters are large, like he knew there would be nothing after it.

I love you too.

I stare at them. Trace them. The pen strokes are harsh, cutting into the paper and leaving sharp indents behind.

I remain in the library until it’s nearing seven, the start of the game. I try to do homework, but I mostly stare at the notebook.