When I opened my eyes the next morning, the first thing I noticed was the light coming through my bedroom window.

It was different.

I knew that probably sounded ridiculous because morning light was morning light, and there was technically nothing separating November 1st from October 31st other than a few hours and the changing of a number on the calendar, but I had always believed November arrived differently than the other months.

October was loud about being autumn. It was bright orange leaves and pumpkins crowded onto every porch, children running through neighborhoods in costumes, horror movies playing on television, and stores filling entire aisles with enough candy to feed a small country. October wanted everyone to know it had arrived, and it refused to leave without one final night of noise and celebration.

November was quieter.

November arrived softly, slipping through bedroom windows in pale gray light and bringing cold air that found its way beneath doors and through the smallest cracks around windows. It smelled like dying leaves and distant fireplaces, like cinnamon and rain and the first warning that winter was waiting somewhere nearby. November was bare branches stretching across cloudy skies, blankets pulled higher beneath chins, hot drinks held between cold hands, and evenings that became dark before anyone was ready for the day to end.

November had always been my favorite month.

I stayed beneath my blankets for several moments, staring at the pale morning light stretching across my bedroom ceiling while my mind slowly woke up enough to understand what day it was.

November 1st.

A small smile appeared on my face.

Then I turned my head.

The other side of my bedroom was empty.

My smile slowly disappeared as I stared at the empty space beside my bed, even though I had absolutely no reason to expect anyone to be there. My mind was still heavy with sleep, and the memories from the night before returned slowly and strangely, appearing one at a time instead of arranging themselves in the correct order.

The movie. The piano.

Riley sitting at the piano and playing a song his mind didn't remember learning.

Riley falling asleep beside me. His head resting against my shoulder. His fingers curling around mine.

Good night, Romeo. I'll meet you in my dreams.

Night, Juliet.

My eyes widened.

I sat up so quickly that the room tilted slightly around me.

"Riley?"

Silence answered.

I blinked several times and looked around my bedroom as though Riley might somehow appear if I searched hard enough. My door was closed, my curtains were half open, and the clothes I had thrown over my desk chair the day before were still there. My phone sat plugged into its charger on the nightstand beside me, and everything looked completely normal.

Except I didn't remember coming upstairs.

At all.

The last thing I remembered was sitting on the couch with Riley asleep against my shoulder while the movie menu played the same quiet music over and over again. I remembered being tired. I remembered my eyes becoming heavier and heavier until I finally stopped fighting to keep them open.

But I didn't remember our families coming home.

I didn't remember Riley waking up.

I didn't remember walking upstairs.

Nothing.

I pushed the blankets away from my legs and looked down at myself. I was still wearing the same clothes from the night before, although someone had apparently removed my socks because they were folded together beside my bed.

That had my mother written all over it.

I reached for my phone and looked at the time.

9:17 a.m.

I had slept much later than I thought.

Several notifications were waiting for me, most of them from our family group chat, which had apparently become extremely active sometime after midnight. Brooklyn had sent seventeen pictures from trick-or-treating. Harper had responded by complaining that no one needed seventeen pictures of Milo wearing vampire teeth. Hudson had sent a blurry photograph of the enormous pile of candy he had collected, and Mom had reminded everyone not to eat any of it for breakfast.

Hudson had responded with a picture of an empty candy wrapper.

I smiled.

Then my eyes automatically searched the notifications for Riley's name.

Nothing.

My smile faded.

I hated how quickly disappointment found me now.

Before the accident, waking up without a message from Riley wouldn't have meant anything. Maybe he was still sleeping. Maybe his phone was dead. Maybe he had gotten distracted by something. Maybe he had simply forgotten to text me because there had never been any expectation that we needed to speak every second of every day.

Now everything felt like it meant something.

Or at least my brain desperately wanted it to.

No message meant he didn't remember me.

A short message meant he was uncomfortable talking to me.

A long message meant he was trying too hard to become someone he couldn't remember being.

A familiar joke meant his memories might be returning.

An unfamiliar reaction meant he was becoming someone completely different.

I was exhausted from searching for meaning in everything Riley did.

I put my phone down. Then, approximately three seconds later, I picked it back up again.

"Pathetic," I whispered.

I opened our messages.

The last conversation between us was still there from the day before. Nothing new.

I stared at the screen for several seconds before forcing myself to close it.

"He went home," I whispered.

Of course he had.

His family must have returned from trick-or-treating, found us asleep on the couch, and eventually woken Riley so they could take him home. Mom or Dad must have gotten me upstairs somehow.

I wondered if Riley remembered what he had said.

Night, Juliet.

My chest tightened.

Maybe he didn't.

He had been asleep.

People said strange things in their sleep all the time. Brooklyn had once spent nearly ten minutes arguing with an invisible waiter because someone had apparently stolen her pancakes in a dream.

It didn't have to mean anything.

But I wanted it to.

That was always the problem.

I wanted everything to mean something.

I pulled my knees against my chest and rested my chin on them while I looked toward the window.

The room was cold. I liked it.

November.

My favorite month.

And Riley's month too.

A small smile touched my face when I remembered that Riley's birthday was in November.

I had always told him that it fit him perfectly. He had always pretended he didn't understand what I meant.

Actually, that wasn't completely true. He understood. He simply enjoyed making me explain myself because apparently watching me become increasingly frustrated was one of his favorite forms of entertainment.

I remembered sitting in his car two Novembers ago while rain tapped softly against the windshield and the heater blew warm air against our faces. We had been parked outside my house for nearly twenty minutes because neither of us felt like getting out of the car yet, something we did so often that our parents had stopped questioning why it took us half an hour to say goodbye when we lived within walking distance of each other.

"You're such a November person," I had told him.

Riley had slowly turned his head toward me. "What does that even mean?"

"It means exactly what I said."

"That explains absolutely nothing."

"You were born in the perfect month."

"I had no control over that."

"I know."

"Then why are you congratulating me?"

"I'm not congratulating you."

"It sounds like you are."

I had rolled my eyes. "You just fit November."

Riley had looked down at the blue hoodie he was wearing before looking back at me. "I'm wearing blue."

"That has nothing to do with anything."

"November isn't blue."

"You're impossible."

"And you're terrible at explaining things."

I smiled at the memory.

He had eventually made me explain what I meant, although I suspected he had understood long before I finally gave him an answer.

I had told him November was quiet without being empty. Cold without being cruel. Beautiful in ways people didn't always notice because they were too busy mourning summer or waiting for Christmas.

Riley had become strangely quiet after that.

Then he had looked at me with a completely serious expression and asked, "So you're saying I'm depressing?"

I had hit him.

He had laughed for five minutes.

My smile slowly disappeared.

I wondered if I had told him that story since the accident.

I had told Riley so many stories about himself that I had started losing track of them. Every day seemed to involve another memory, another tradition, another explanation about something we had done together. I couldn't remember if I had told him about the November conversation.

Maybe I hadn't.

Maybe I could tell him again.

Then another thought came.

His birthday.

My stomach dropped slightly.

Would he remember his own birthday?

Of course he knew when it was. Someone had probably told him by now. His medical information had his birth date, and Willow or Kai had undoubtedly mentioned that his birthday was coming.

But knowing when your birthday happened and remembering your birthdays were completely different things.

Would he remember the terrible cake Lydia had attempted to make him when he turned sixteen?

Would he remember the camera Willow and Kai had surprised him with?

Would he remember the year Milo had wrapped one of his own toys and given it to Riley because he hadn't understood that birthday presents were supposed to be things the other person wanted?

Would Riley remember any of it?

Would he remember me showing up at his house every year before anyone else because I had decided when we were children that best friends were legally required to be the first people to say happy birthday?

My chest tightened.

I had done it every year.

When we were six, I had made Mom drive me to his house before school because I refused to accept that seeing him twenty minutes later in class was good enough.

When we were nine, I had convinced Kai to leave the front door unlocked so I could sneak inside and wake Riley by jumping directly onto his bed.

When we were thirteen, I had called him at exactly midnight, only to discover that he had already fallen asleep and was deeply offended that I had woken him.

When we were sixteen, I had hidden in the back seat of his car and nearly given him a heart attack when I suddenly screamed happy birthday from behind him.

Last year, I had thrown pebbles at his bedroom window at midnight until he opened it and informed me that I was going to break something and be forced to explain to Willow why there was a rock in his bedroom.

Every year.

Always me.

I wondered what I would do this year.

Would it be strange to show up? Would he want me there? Would he understand why it mattered so much to me?

I pressed my face against my knees.

November had always been my favorite month.

This year, it felt different. Everything did.

A soft knock sounded against my bedroom door.

I lifted my head. "Come in."

The door opened, and Mom appeared holding a mug between both hands. "You're awake."

"Apparently."

She smiled as she walked into my room. "How do you feel?"

"Like I was drugged and transported upstairs against my will."

Mom laughed softly. "That's almost what happened."

I frowned. "What?"

Instead of answering, she handed me the mug.

Hot chocolate.

I wrapped both hands around it, letting the warmth sink into my fingers. "Where's Riley?" The question came out far too quickly.

Mom noticed.

"He went home."

"Oh."

"Willow and Kai woke him around midnight."

I stared into my hot chocolate.

"Did he..." I stopped.

Mom waited.

"Did he say anything?"

"About what?"

I shrugged, trying much too hard to look casual. "Nothing."

Mom raised an eyebrow.

I took a drink.

She continued staring at me.

"What?" I asked innocently.

"You're doing the thing." She pointed out.

"What thing?"

"The thing where you pretend you don't care about something while caring so much that you look physically uncomfortable."

"I don't do that."

"You absolutely do."

I looked away.

Mom sat on the edge of my bed. "What happened?"

"Nothing."

"Autumn."

I sighed. "He called me Juliet."

Mom went still.

I stared down at my mug. "Last night. He was asleep, and I said good night to him, and he called me Juliet."

Mom stayed quiet.

I finally looked at her. "Do you think that means something?"

The question sounded embarrassingly hopeful, even to me.

Mom's expression softened. "I don't know."

My heart sank.

She placed one hand on my knee. "And I know that isn't the answer you wanted."

"No."

"But I don't want to tell you something means more than it does when neither of us knows."

I nodded slowly.

She was right. I hated that she was right.

"He's remembering things," I whispered.

"Yes."

"The piano. He remembered how to play it. His hands remembered."

Mom smiled faintly.

I looked toward my bedroom window. "What if he remembers everything?"

Mom didn't answer immediately.

"What if he doesn't?" I continued.

"Autumn—"

"I know." I sighed. "Nobody knows."

She squeezed my knee.

I stared down at the hot chocolate. "I just wish I knew what I was supposed to do."

"About Riley?"

"About everything."

Mom waited quietly.

"I miss him," I whispered.

My throat tightened.

"And then I feel terrible for missing him because he's still here. I feel like I should just be grateful that he survived, and I am. I'm so grateful he survived. But sometimes I look at him and miss him so much that it physically hurts."

Mom's expression changed.

"I know that sounds horrible."

"It doesn't." She said.

"He's right there."

"I know."

"But he isn't." My voice broke. "He is and he isn't, and I don't know how to explain that without sounding like I don't appreciate the fact that he's alive."

Mom moved closer. "You don't have to explain it."

I looked at her. She reached forward and gently brushed my hair away from my face. "You can be grateful Riley survived and still grieve everything that changed."

My eyes filled.

"Both things can be true."

I looked down. "Sometimes I think I'm getting used to it."

Mom listened.

"And then he asks me which one is Brooklyn."

My voice cracked.

"Or I make a joke he doesn't understand. Or he looks at a picture of us and asks me when it happened, and suddenly it hurts exactly like it did the first day."

A tear slipped down my cheek. Mom wiped it away with her thumb. "I don't know if that ever stops completely."

"That's comforting." I shook my head.

She smiled sadly. "I'm your mother. I'm supposed to tell you the truth occasionally."

"Occasionally?"

"Very occasionally."

I laughed softly.

Mom leaned forward and kissed the top of my head before standing. "I'm making breakfast."

"I'm not hungry."

"You say that every morning."

"Because I'm never hungry in the morning."

"You'll eat anyway."

"Threatening."

"Parenting."

She started walking toward the door.

"Mom?"

She stopped. "What?"

"How did I get upstairs? You said I was completely asleep."

"You were." She replied.

"So how did I get to bed?"

Mom hesitated.

I narrowed my eyes. "Mom."

Her smile grew.

"Riley carried you."

My entire body froze. "What?"

"He woke up before you did."

I stared at her.

"He was confused at first, poor thing. I think he forgot where he was for a second, and then Willow explained that everyone had come back and they were going home."

"And?"

"And you wouldn't wake up."

My face immediately became hot. "Oh my God."

Mom laughed. "Dad tried."

"Dad tried what?"

"To carry you upstairs."

I stared at her in horror.

"And Riley told him no."

My heart stopped. "What?"

Mom's smile softened. "He said he could do it."

I couldn't speak.

"He picked you up from the couch, carried you upstairs, and put you in bed."

My fingers tightened around the mug.

"Did he..." I swallowed. "Did he remember doing that before?"

"I don't know."

Of course. The answer to everything.

I don't know.

Mom reached for the bedroom door. "But, Autumn?"

"Yeah?"

"He knew which room was yours."

I stopped breathing.

Mom left. The door closed quietly behind her.

I sat completely still.

Riley knew which room was mine.

Maybe someone had told him. Maybe he had noticed before. Maybe it meant nothing. Maybe it meant everything.

I looked toward my bedroom door. Then I slowly looked around my room. The room Riley had entered thousands of times.

The room where we had studied and argued and watched movies and talked until three in the morning. The room where he had comforted me during anxiety attacks and listened to secrets I had never told anyone else. The room where he had fallen asleep on the floor because neither of us had realized how late it had gotten.

He had known where it was.

My eyes filled.

I picked up my phone. Before I could overthink it, I opened our messages and stared at the empty text box.

Then I typed.

Happy November.

I hesitated.

Before the accident, Riley would have understood immediately. He probably would have responded with something stupid.

It is nine in the morning. Please get a hobby.

Or maybe:

Congratulations on surviving October.

Or simply:

You say that every year.

I stared at the message. Then I sent it.

Delivered.

I waited.

Nothing.

I put my phone down.

Ten seconds later, I picked it up.

Nothing.

"Pathetic," I whispered again.

I put it down.

The phone buzzed.

My heart jumped and I grabbed it.

Riley.

Is this a thing?

I stared at the message.

Then I smiled.

It was.

The typing bubble appeared. Then disappeared. Then appeared again.

What am I supposed to say back?

I laughed softly.

My fingers moved across the screen.

You usually tell me to stop being weird.

Three dots appeared.

Stop being weird.

My smile disappeared.

Not because I was sad. Because for one tiny second, it felt exactly the same.

I blinked away the tears filling my eyes.

Then another message appeared.

Did I do it right?

I laughed.

Almost.

What did I miss?

I stared at the screen.

Then typed.

You normally add an insult.

The typing bubble appeared almost immediately.

Happy November, fry thief. Stop being weird.

A laugh burst out of me.

I covered my mouth with one hand.

It wasn't the same. I knew that.

He was using things he had learned from the journal. He was trying to recreate something he couldn't remember, using pieces of the person he had been and the friendship we had shared.

But maybe that mattered too.

Maybe Riley didn't remember our traditions. Maybe he didn't remember why November was my favorite month or why I had always said the month fit him perfectly. Maybe he didn't remember every birthday I had spent beside him. But he was trying. And maybe there was something beautiful about being loved enough for someone to try to know you again.

I looked out the window at the gray November morning.

Bare branches moved gently in the cold wind, and leaves scattered across the street while the world outside looked quiet and soft and a little sad.

Beautiful anyway.

November.

My favorite month.

Riley's month.

I looked back at my phone and typed.

Perfect.

His reply came several seconds later.

Good.

Then another message appeared.

Happy November, Juliet.

My heart stopped.

I stared at the screen.

He was awake this time. He knew what he had written.

I pressed my phone against my chest and closed my eyes.

November had arrived quietly.

And somehow, so had hope.