Something flashes across his face, something dark that I can’t put a name to, and he takes another step toward me. And then another. And then another and I can’t move. I can’t move and he’s in front of me and he’s so big. He’s so big and he fills the world until everything else is gone—like it’s nothing more than a dream.

He’s almost to me and I don’t know what I’ll do when he reaches me. Just as a big hand of his, the same one that was in her hair, stretches out toward me, I snap my own hand up, smacking the present against his fingers.

“I just wanted to give you your present,” I say, not looking up at him. “It’s not much. It’s not really anything. You’ll probably hate it. I’m sorry. I can get you something else. If you don’t want it. It’s nothing. It’s nothing.”

“Ty,” he says, touching my fingers with his. “I’m sure it’s wonderful.”

Oh, how I quake. “Yeah,” I say.

“That’s so sweet,” Stacey says, a smile in her voice. She comes up on the other side of Dominic and puts a hand on his arm. He flinches, but she doesn’t notice. I do. “Why don’t you open it?”

“Maybe it should just be me and Ty—”

“No,” I say. “It’s c-cool. It’s f-f-fine.”

Claws at my throat. A vise around my heart. My breath sounds like it’s whistling up from my throat. Can’t they hear it? Can’t they hear everything?

He digs through the tape and it snaps. The paper crinkles, little blue snowmen because I couldn’t find any other wrapping paper. I should have looked harder. I should have done better.

It falls to the floor.

“Oh!” Stacey says, sounding delighted. “It’s a digital picture frame! I’ve always thought these things were so cool.” She’s trying. It sounds like she’s trying. Maybe too hard.

“You h-have to p-press the b-b-b”—breathe, goddamn you!—“the button.”

He clicks the button on the side. It sounds like a shotgun blast.

And then our life unfolds. Picture by picture. Frame by frame. It tells a story. Me and him. Every year since I was nine. Every holiday. Every birthday. Every celebration. The good days and the bad ones. It tells our story and it’s sequential, starting from the beginning, from that very day when he told me our friendship was inevitable, to just a few weeks ago, when I fell asleep and he carried me up the stairs to my bed before going home.

It’s there. All of it is there. It’s a love letter, though I didn’t know it when I made it. Anyone can see it’s a love letter. It’s so obvious. It’s so trite. It’s so awkward. It’s nothing. It can’t be anything. He can’t know. I don’t want him to know. I can’t let him know.

“Ty,” he says, his voice coming out strangled. “This is….”

I think about snatching it out of his hands and throwing it to the floor, but I can’t. I shrug instead, taking a step back. “It’s nothing. It was cheap.” It cost everything I had saved. “I had a few hours, so I made it.” It took me weeks. “Don’t even worry about it.” Please go away. Please go away because I can’t stand to see that look on your face.