I woke to pale morning light spilling through the narrow spaces between Riley's curtains, stretching in soft golden lines across the floor and touching the edges of everything in his bedroom as though the sun was trying to wake the room without disturbing anyone inside it.

For several seconds, I didn't move.

My eyes stayed half closed, my thoughts still caught somewhere between sleep and waking, and I listened to the quiet sounds of a house filled with more people than it was used to holding.

Somewhere downstairs, a cabinet opened and closed. Water moved through the pipes behind the walls. Someone walked down the hallway outside Riley's bedroom, their footsteps careful and slow, probably trying not to wake everyone else. Beneath all of those sounds, quieter but closer, was the steady rhythm of Riley breathing beside me.

Then I remembered where I was.

The dinner. Downtown. The crowds. My finger hooked through his belt loop. The sleepover. Riley closing his bedroom door and putting one finger to his lips as he told me our parents didn't need to know we had decided to share the bed instead of forcing one of us to sleep on the floor.

The journal.

My eyes opened completely.

I was lying on my side with the journal pressed against my chest, one hand curled around the bottom edge of its cover as though I had been afraid someone might take it from me while I slept.

The ridiculous blanket wall Riley had built between us the night before had not survived. Sometime during the night, it had been kicked almost completely to the bottom of the bed, leaving several feet of empty mattress between us.

I slowly lifted my head and looked toward Riley.

He was still asleep.

He was lying on his stomach with one arm tucked beneath his pillow and his face turned slightly away from me. His hair was an absolute disaster, sticking up in different directions like he had spent the entire night fighting an invisible enemy, and the blanket was pulled halfway over his head. One of his feet was sticking out from beneath it at the bottom of the bed, which reminded me of the countless times I had told him that sleeping like that was practically an invitation for a monster to grab his ankle.

He had always told me that if a monster wanted him badly enough, a blanket wasn't going to save him.

I had always told him he had no respect for the laws of childhood survival.

Looking at him now, I smiled before I could stop myself.

He looked like Riley.

Not the old Riley. Not the new Riley.

Just Riley.

Sleeping had a way of doing that. There was no confusion in his expression. No careful concentration whenever someone told him a story about his own life. No sadness hiding behind his eyes when he looked at photographs of people he knew he was supposed to love but couldn't remember loving. No questions. No apologies. No moments where he looked at me like he was desperately searching through an empty room inside his head for something that would explain why my face should mean so much to him.

He was simply asleep in the same bed where I had watched him fall asleep countless times before.

I looked down at the journal.

My smile slowly disappeared.

For years, I had wondered what Riley wrote inside these things. I had begged him to tell me. I had bribed him. I had threatened him. Once, when we were seventeen, I had offered to let him read three entire pages of my diary in exchange for one page of his journal, and Riley had looked at me like I had proposed a highly illegal business transaction before telling me there were certain things even twelve years of friendship couldn't survive.

Now I was holding an entire journal filled with things about me.

I looked at Riley again.

Still asleep.

I carefully sat up against the headboard, moving slowly so the mattress wouldn't shift too much beneath me. I pulled the blanket over my legs, settled the journal in my lap, and stared at the cover.

He had given it to me.

Actually given it to me.

I think this belongs to you more than it did me.

I still didn't know how I felt about that.

There was something beautiful about it. Something heartbreaking too. Old Riley would have chased me through three states before willingly handing me one of his journals. New Riley had placed it in my hands because he had read enough to know that most of the memories inside belonged to the two of us, and he thought they deserved to be with the person who could still remember living them.

I ran my fingers over the cover.

Then I opened it.

The first page had my name written across the top in Riley's familiar handwriting.

AUTUMN.

Underneath it, in much smaller letters, he had added one word.

Unfortunately.

I stared at it.

Then I laughed.

The sound came out louder than I intended, and I immediately pressed my lips together before glancing at Riley.

He didn't move.

I looked back at the journal.

Of course. Of course that was the first thing he had written.

Autumn has decided I need to write about her because apparently years of friendship stories, family memories, photographs, and general suffering are not enough proof that she exists.

My mouth fell open.

I did not agree to this. She doesn't know I'm doing it. Actually, if she ever finds this journal, I'm moving to another country.

I slowly looked over at the sleeping boy beside me.

"You didn't get very far," I whispered.

Riley shifted slightly.

I froze. For several seconds, I didn't even breathe. Then his face settled against the pillow again.

I returned to the journal.

She asked me yesterday if I write about her in these things. I said no. That was a lie, but I don't feel bad because she steals my fries.

I smiled.

She says best friends should share food. Interesting how "sharing" only works in one direction. I have never once received one of Autumn's fries. Not one. I've known her since we were five. That is fourteen years of theft.

I had to cover my mouth to keep from laughing again.

It was stupid. So incredibly stupid. And somehow, that was what hurt the most.

Because it was him.

It was completely, unmistakably him.

I turned the page and found a sketch of myself sitting at a table. At least, I assumed it was supposed to be me. My hair was tied in a messy knot on top of my head, my cheek rested in one hand, and the other held a fork over a plate. Riley had drawn my expression with disturbing accuracy. I looked exhausted, impatient, and deeply offended by whatever was sitting in front of me.

Beneath the sketch, he had written:

Autumn waiting thirty seconds for her food to cool down.

I rolled my eyes. "Jerk."

The next entry was dated several weeks later.

Today Autumn cried because she saw a video of a baby fox.

I frowned.

I remembered that.

She claims she was "emotionally overwhelmed by its tiny face." I told her this was not a normal reaction. She told me I don't have a soul.

I smiled.

She might be right.

Below that, his handwriting became smaller and more careful.

She feels everything too much. I make fun of her for it, but I think it might be one of the best things about her. She notices things other people don't. If someone gets quiet, she notices. If someone is left out, she notices. If someone says they're fine differently than they normally say they're fine, somehow she notices that too.

My smile faded.

It seems exhausting.

A laugh escaped me.

There he was. Even when he was being sweet, he couldn't let me have it completely.

I don't know how she does it. I think if I felt everything the way Autumn does, I would sleep for six years.

I smiled sadly.

Sometimes I wish she would stop noticing me so much.

My fingers stilled against the page.

I read the sentence again.

Then the next one.

Not because I don't like it. Because sometimes I think she sees things I don't want anyone to see.

My eyes slowly moved toward Riley.

He was still asleep.

I thought about the other journal.

The drawings. The poetry. The boy drowning beneath dark water. The goodbye notes.

My heart ached.

How many times had I noticed something was wrong? How many times had I asked? How many times had Riley smiled, made some stupid joke, and convinced me that whatever I thought I saw wasn't really there?

I looked back at the page.

Luckily, she is also incredibly easy to distract. Usually with food.

I laughed softly through the ache in my chest.

"Of course."

I turned another page.

There was a list.

THINGS AUTUMN IS BAD AT:

1. Directions.

2. Admitting when she's wrong.

3. Cooking anything that requires patience.

4. Not crying at movies.

5. Reaching things on high shelves.

6. Mind-reading, despite what she believes.

7. Leaving me alone.

I stared at number seven.

Then I noticed something written beneath the list.

THINGS AUTUMN IS GOOD AT:

1. Not leaving me alone.

My throat tightened.

I ran my finger over the words.

There was nothing romantic about them. I knew that. I had known that before I ever opened the journal.

Still, some small, stupid part of me had hoped.

I didn't know why.

Maybe because I was pathetic. Maybe because I was human. Maybe because when someone had loved another person for as long and as painfully as I had loved Riley, hope became a habit that was nearly impossible to break.

Somewhere deep inside me, I had imagined opening this journal and finding something Riley had never been brave enough to tell me. A confession. A sentence crossed out so many times the ink had nearly torn through the paper. Some secret admission that said he had loved me too and simply hadn't known what to do about it.

But there was nothing like that.

No hidden romance. No secret longing. No confession waiting between the pages.

There was friendship.

Beautiful, ridiculous, enormous friendship.

I turned the page.

Autumn told me today that if I get married before her, she refuses to be a groomsman.

I blinked.

Then smiled.

First of all, she absolutely will be.

A laugh escaped me.

Second, I don't care if she's a girl. She is going to be my best man. Best woman. Best Autumn. Whatever. I'm not letting some random guy I meet later in life stand beside me when I get married. I've known her since I ate glue.

I pressed my hand over my mouth.

She will wear whatever I tell her to wear.

"No, I will not," I whispered.

I'm thinking something awful.

I narrowed my eyes.

Possibly orange.

I stared at the page. "Riley."

She hates orange.

"I do."

Maybe a suit with tiny pictures of my face printed all over it.

My mouth fell open.

She would hate that.

I nodded.

This makes me want it more.

I slowly turned my head toward him. "You are horrible."

He continued sleeping peacefully.

I looked back at the journal.

She says if I make her wear something ugly, she'll object during the ceremony. I told her that's not how objections work. She said, "Watch me."

I remembered that conversation.

We had been sitting in Riley's car outside my house. I had threatened to stand in the middle of his future wedding and object on the grounds of fashion cruelty. He had laughed so hard he nearly spilled his drink.

Honestly, if I ever get married, Autumn will probably be the worst part of the wedding.

My heart sank slightly.

Then I read the next sentence.

She'll also be the first person I look for when I start panicking.

I stopped.

Because she'll know.

My eyes filled.

She always knows.

I closed my eyes.

The journal rested open in my lap. For a moment, I couldn't continue. Because that was the difference between us, wasn't it?

I had looked at Riley and imagined a wedding where I stood beside him as his wife.

Riley had looked at me and imagined a wedding where I stood beside him wearing an orange suit covered in pictures of his face.

I should not have laughed.

I did.

A broken, watery laugh escaped me as I wiped beneath my eyes.

It was sad. It was so incredibly sad.

But it was sweet too.

Because even in a future where Riley fell in love with someone else, married someone else, and built an entire life with someone else, he had still imagined me there.

Not as the bride. Never as the bride.

But beside him.

He had still assumed I would be there.

I turned the page.

Autumn fell asleep in my car today.

I remembered that too.

She said she wasn't tired.

I smiled.

She said this while yawning. Then she said she was "resting her eyes." Five minutes later, she was asleep.

On the next page was a terrible drawing of me asleep against the car window with my mouth open.

I gasped quietly. "Oh, you absolute—"

Beneath it, he had written one word.

Beautiful.

My heart jumped.

Then I noticed the word underneath it.

Creature.

I glared at the page.

Nature is amazing.

I almost threw the journal at him. Instead, I covered my face and laughed so hard my shoulders shook.

That was Riley. That was exactly Riley. He would give me half a second to think he was being sweet and then destroy it completely.

I kept reading.

Autumn asked me what I would do if she died.

My smile disappeared.

I told her I would finally know peace. She hit me. Then she asked again.

My eyes moved more slowly now.

I don't know why she asks questions like that. I told her I didn't know. She said I had to answer, so I told her I'd take care of her family.

My vision blurred.

I'd make sure Hudson didn't become a criminal. I'd check on Harper and Brooklyn. I'd annoy her parents so they didn't get too sad.

A tear slipped down my cheek.

I'd probably keep texting her phone.

I pressed my lips together.

I wouldn't delete her contact.

Another tear.

I think that would make it too real.

I had to stop reading.

I looked at Riley. My Riley. Sleeping only a few feet away from me.

Except I was the one who had kept texting his phone. I was the one who had reread our conversations. I was the one who had been terrified of losing his pictures, his messages, his voice.

He hadn't died.

But sometimes grief didn't care about technicalities.

I wiped my face and continued.

Autumn is mad at me today.

I frowned.

I forgot to call her.

"Oh." I remembered.

She said she wasn't mad.

I smiled.

She was mad.

"Correct."

I bought her coffee.

"Also correct."

She forgave me.

I nodded.

She is easily bribed.

"I was not bribed."

She was bribed.

I rolled my eyes.

The entries continued like that, little pieces of me scattered across the pages.

Autumn sings the wrong lyrics to songs with so much confidence that sometimes I question whether I'm the one who is wrong.

She steals my hoodies and then acts confused when I ask for them back.

She says "five more minutes" when she means forty.

She thinks every animal likes her.

Most animals do like her, which is annoying.

She cannot whisper.

I frowned.

I could whisper.

Then I read the next line.

She thinks she can whisper.

I shut the journal. "I hate you."

Riley shifted and I froze. His face moved against the pillow.

I waited.

Nothing.

I slowly reopened the journal.

There were sketches between the entries too. Drawings of me reading. Sleeping. Holding Milo when he was a baby. Standing beneath an umbrella. Sitting on the hood of his car. Laughing with my head thrown back.

There were also a truly unnecessary number of drawings of me glaring at Riley.

Beneath one, he had written:

Her natural habitat.

I smiled.

Then I turned the page.

Sometimes I think people misunderstand Autumn.

I stilled.

They think because she cries easily, she's fragile.

I swallowed.

She isn't. She's probably the strongest person I know.

My eyes filled again.

Which is unfortunate because now she'll be unbearable if she ever reads this.

I laughed through my tears.

She'll probably bring it up every time we argue.

I nodded. "I would."

"Remember when you said I was the strongest person you know?"

I smiled.

Yes, Autumn. I remember.

My smile disappeared.

I stared at the sentence.

Yes, Autumn. I remember.

The irony was so cruel that I almost laughed.

He didn't. That was the problem.

He didn't remember.

I turned the page.

She's my best friend.

My heart squeezed.

I know that sounds simple. It isn't.

I stopped breathing.

I think "best friend" is one of those things people say so much that they forget what it actually means.

My fingers trembled.

Autumn knows everything about me.

My chest ached.

Not everything. Apparently.

She knows how I take my coffee. She knows when I'm lying. She knows what songs I hate. She knows I don't like tomatoes but eat ketchup anyway, which she claims makes me a hypocrite.

"It does."

She knows I hate hospitals.

My heart twisted.

She knows I pretend not to be afraid of things.

My breath caught.

She knows I am.

I wiped another tear.

I know her too.

I kept reading.

I know when she's about to have an anxiety attack before she does.

My hand trembled.

Her leg starts bouncing first. Then her fingers.

My eyes moved toward Riley's hands resting beneath his pillow.

Then they shake. I hold them when that happens. I don't know if it actually helps.

"It does," I whispered.

She says it does.

"It does."

So I'll keep doing it.

I closed my eyes.

He had.

Even when he didn't remember. He had still reached for my shaking hand.

I turned the page.

The next entry was short.

I think everyone should have an Autumn.

My heart broke.

Not mine.

I frowned.

Then read the next line.

Obviously. Get your own.

A laugh escaped me through my tears.

I shook my head.

There he was. Always.

But I think everyone should have someone who knows them before they know how to explain themselves. Someone who remembers the kid you were. Someone who knows which parts of you changed and which ones never did.

My throat tightened.

Someone you don't have to impress. Someone who can sit beside you for three hours without talking and somehow that still counts as hanging out. Someone who can walk into your house without knocking. Someone who knows where the cups are. Someone who knows your family so well they forget she technically isn't part of it.

I wiped my cheeks.

Autumn is that person.

My hands shook.

She's my Juliet.

I stopped.

The words hurt.

Which is stupid because Romeo and Juliet both died, and if she ever tries to convince me that makes the nickname romantic, I will remind her that we were five and I forgot half my lines.

I smiled through my tears.

But she's still my Juliet.

I pressed my hand against my mouth.

And I guess I'm her Romeo.

I looked at the boy sleeping beside me.

Poor girl.

A broken laugh escaped me.

I closed the journal.

For a long time, I simply sat there.

The morning light had grown brighter while I read. It stretched across Riley's floor, touched the photographs on his walls, and rested softly against the bed.

There had been no confession. No hidden love. No secret longing. Riley had not loved me the way I loved him. The journal proved that. But somehow, what I had found was almost more precious.

I had found myself through Riley's eyes.

Annoying. Emotional. Terrible with directions. A thief of fries. A future best woman who would apparently be forced to wear an orange suit covered in pictures of his face.

Someone who cried too much. Someone who noticed too much. Someone who never left him alone. Someone strong. Someone who knew.

His best friend. His Juliet.

I looked at Riley again. He moved slightly in his sleep, turning his face toward me.

I stared at him.

For years, I had wanted more. I had wanted his heart in a way he couldn't give it to me. But I had never realized how much of it I already had. Not romantically. Not the way I had dreamed. But in a thousand other ways.

Maybe that was why the rejection had hurt so badly.

Because I had mistaken the size of his love for the shape of it.

Riley had loved me.

Just not like that.

He had loved me in stolen fries and ugly wedding suits. In holding shaking hands and remembering coffee orders. In teasing me until I wanted to scream and knowing exactly when I needed him to stop. In pictures and sketches and stupid lists. In a fourteen-year friendship so enormous that neither of us had ever needed to question whether the other would still be there tomorrow.

Until tomorrow came.

And Riley forgot.

I lowered my eyes to the journal again, resting my palm over the cover.

Then Riley stirred.

I froze.

His eyes slowly opened. For several seconds, he stared at me sleepily. His hair was still a mess, half his face was pressed with pillow lines, and he looked so confused by consciousness that under any other circumstances I would have laughed.

Then his gaze moved toward the journal then back to me. His voice was rough with sleep when he spoke.

"So?"

I swallowed. "So what?"

"Was I nice?"

I stared at him.

Then I laughed. A real laugh.

"No."

Riley frowned. "I was horrible?"

"Absolutely terrible."

He blinked slowly.

I smiled through the last of my tears.

"You were my best friend."

Something in his expression softened. He looked at the journal in my hands. Then at me. "Yeah?"

I held it against my chest. "Yeah."

He was quiet for a moment. Then his eyes narrowed slightly. "Did I really write that you steal fries?"

I blinked. "You don't remember?"

"No."

I hugged the journal closer. "Then I don't know what you're talking about."

Riley stared at me. "You do steal fries."

I looked at him. "What?"

"I said you steal fries." He said.

"I know what you said."

"Then why are you looking at me like that?" He asked.

I swallowed. "Because you don't remember me stealing fries."

Riley frowned. "No."

"But you still accused me." I said.

He stared at me for a moment. Then his mouth slowly curved. "Maybe you just look like a fry thief."

A laugh burst out of me. I grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at him. Riley lifted one arm to protect his face, laughing as the pillow hit his shoulder.

"See?" he said. "Violent too."

"You wrote nice things about me for approximately four pages. I'm allowed to be emotional."

"Four?"

"Maybe five."

"That seems excessive."

"You also said I should be your best woman when you get married."

Riley's eyebrows lifted. "Really?"

"Yes."

"What were you going to wear?"

I narrowed my eyes. "Don't."

His smile grew. "Was it ugly?"

"Riley."

"Orange?"

I stared at him.

He started laughing.

"You read it!"

"I guessed!"

"You did not guess orange."

"Apparently I know myself better than I thought."

I hit him with the pillow again.

He laughed harder and I did too.

I laughed until my stomach hurt and tears filled my eyes again, but this time they weren't entirely sad.

Because Riley didn't remember writing the journal. He didn't remember all the years inside it. He didn't remember loving me as his best friend.

But somehow, sitting there in the morning light, teasing me about stolen fries and orange wedding suits, he sounded exactly like the boy who had.

And for now, that was enough.

Not forever. Not for every day. Not for every memory I still had to carry alone.

But for this morning, it was enough.