I know. You still get the prize if you win though

I don’t care, I’m walking out of here with a medal

:)

When I looked up, Emma and Noah were both staring.

“What?” I asked.

“Are you done swooning?” Emma said.

“Thank you! I was looking for the right word.” Noah turned to Emma, who smugly nodded. “I had ‘pining like a perfect prick,’ but it didn’t quite fit—”

“‘Pining like a perfect prick’ is a bit harsh, but I’m always partial to some good alliteration—” she said.

“Fuck off?” I said. “Does that fit?”

“No, you were probably thinking of ‘fuck me,’” Noah said, and even I broke down laughing.

It was almost as if we were back, somehow. Briefly reverting to the selves each of us had been two years ago, before all that was real seemed to have vanished. That was how it felt, to me, at least. It was almost like a memory—one of those instances when one realized that the moment being experienced was actually already a memory. A gust of wind, a flicker of a second, that was all it took. It wasn’t true, of course. We weren’t back. Nothing was; how could it be? We were just three people who used to share a life, who used to be a certain way and now struggled to continue. Be it a conversation, a shared breakfast, or life itself. In that kitchen, that Sunday morning, three familiar faces got together and momentarily reminded one another of what life could bring.

If there was a lesson there, I truly didn’t think it mattered. I used to have a problem with not being the same person I was back when Liam was alive. Not anymore though, not really. Most of those memories were beautiful ones and to relive them would mean believing things could go back to being a certain way. They couldn’t. I couldn’t. For better or worse, this was me. Whoever that was.

I could however, for the first time in quite a while, honestly say that I wanted to figure out who that someone was. Maybe that was enough. Maybe it was a matter of curiosity. Or maybe my medication had hit the right spot that day.

Who knows?

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Twelve

Jonas

One of the many perks of being depressed was that no matter how much sleep I got, I was always tired. Fifteen minutes, two hours, twelve—it didn’t matter. And it didn’t that Monday either. I overslept, which meant I had to skip coffee to get to school on time, and that alone was something that usually determined how well my day would turn out.

I hurried along to my locker, zigzagging around other students and, just as I reached it, the bell rang, and the halls quickly emptied. As I struggled with my combination, Ethan walked over and leaned on the locker next to mine, smiling.