I begin to run, my fisted hand holding the puzzle piece keeping Fitz’s jacket and my bag secure against my chest while I cross the grass, making my way past the Art Center, and onto the path that leads to the fields.

My head flings left and right. There’s no sign of Fitz. I haven’t given up total hope yet. Because if he’s where I think he might be, he’d be tucked out of sight.

I expect to come face-to-face with the chain-link fence that once surrounded the track and football field, but I find it gone. I guess after I left, there wasn’t any more riffraff to keep out.

Even though I’m not sure if Fitz is here, a smile graces my face when I step onto the field, remembering how we had sprinted across it that night hand in hand. The muscle memory I didn’t know I still carried hits me, and my fingers fiddle and flex, searching for him.

When I get to the bleachers, I close my eyes for a second, trying to remember how many steps we took before I walk around and duck beneath them.

Six. We had only made it six.

Crouching, I make my way inward toward the center.

“Fitz?” I call out as I drop down, sliding into the small space between the metal steps. “Fitz, are you down here?”

My question goes unanswered when I finally slide successfully into the space underneath the bleachers.

I should frown, but when I turn on my phone’s flashlight and see the black writing farther down, I find myself smiling.

My eyes set themselves to trace my handwriting, to see ourselves encapsulated as rebels who broke into school overnight and vandalized a place no one would ever really see with our legacy. But we knew it was there. That’s what mattered.

As I get closer, I realize more writing has been added beside my contribution. My face falls as my chest cracks, the aching pieces bringing the pain to my gut one by one.

Wished I wasn’t chicken and kissed you that night. Been waiting four months for you to come home. Still waiting.

Rebels Only.

My attention is only pulled from Fitz’s handwriting when something crunches below my sneaker. I look down, using the light from my phone, and retrieve my name tag with a trembling hand before I look back up, tracing Fitz’s handwriting he added next to mine at some point.

I don’t know if Fitz came back to this spot five times or fifty. I don’t even know if I’ll ever have the right to ask.

But what I do know is he showed up for me. It doesn’t matter if it was once or twice because he was the only one who ever did.

Day 147