The six of used to hang out before first period in front of my locker and Javier’s, since they were central to our classes. But that changed last year. Luisa and Kane usually go off on their own to who-knows-where, and I barely see them throughout the day. “That’s old news,” I mumble. “I saw them this morning. They’re fine.”

“Oh. Really? Well, that’s boring. She’s a total bitch anyway, ignoring us like she does.”

Not ignoring us. Ignoring me is more like it.

I tell Nina I’ll see her in trig and head off toward the locker rooms, my mind swirling more than ever. Juliet said that I’d think about him less and less as time went on, but she failed to tell me that every anniversary—of our first kiss, our first date—would stir up the memories afresh.

IT ENDS HERE.

Yes, if by “it” you mean everything normal about my life. It all ended that day. These days, I’m the odd girl out. The leftover. Maybe I’ll never be anything else.

Gym is my least favorite class because I don’t have a single ally there anymore. I used to be…not popular, but someone who held her own. Popular seniors wouldn’t be buddy-buddy with me, but they’d talk to me here and there. Now, they turn the other way when I come near.

They don’t know what to say, so they avoid, avoid, avoid.

It’s probably good, since even the stupidest, silliest comments have a way of reducing me to tears. Declan was the brain, the thinker. He wanted to go into engineering and architecture—urban planning, he thought. He was constantly working with his hands, getting them all cut up building models. At any time, he’d have half a dozen bandages on his hands. So a couple months ago, when I got a paper cut in art, I started to sob uncontrollably when the teacher offered me a Band-Aid.

No wonder they all expect me to have a mental breakdown. It wouldn’t be the first time.

I trudge into the locker room, and the smell of body odor and baby powder assaults my nose. Everyone in my row stops and looks at me as I sit on the bench and bend over, taking my combination lock in my hand. I spin the lock face, trying to clear my mind so that I can focus on the numbers.

IT ENDS HERE.

Not the pain. Juliet was wrong. The pain grows. It grows and stretches until it’s bigger than me. It’s spiraling out, and sometimes I can feel it not only in my chest, but radiating out of my arms and legs, suffocating me and everything around me.

That feeling comes, silent and dark as fog. Before I can channel one of Juliet’s coping techniques, it settles over my mind, extinguishing all but one thought there.

Bleed.