When I woke up, for one blissful and beautiful moment, I forgot everything.

I forgot the hospital. I forgot the phone call. I forgot the machines and the doctors and the photographs packed carefully inside a cardboard box. I forgot the way Riley had looked at me when he opened his eyes, and I forgot the three words that had somehow managed to hurt worse than every heartbreak I had ever experienced before them. For one tiny moment, I was simply Autumn, waking up too late in the afternoon after sleeping far longer than any human being reasonably should, and somewhere in the world was Riley, probably doing something stupid that I would make fun of him for later.

My room was dark except for the late-afternoon sunlight slipping through the curtains, painting thin golden lines across my blankets and the wall beside my bed. My body felt heavy from sleeping too long, my head thick with that strange fog that came from waking up without knowing what time it was, what day it was, or how long I had been gone. I blinked slowly at the ceiling and tried to remember why I was still wearing the pajamas I had changed into that morning and why my phone was plugged into the charger beside my bed instead of underneath my pillow, where it usually ended up sometime during the night.

I stretched beneath the blankets and immediately regretted it when every muscle in my body protested. Apparently, sleeping in a hospital chair had done permanent damage to my spine, and I made a quiet sound of complaint as I rolled onto my side and reached blindly for my phone.

The screen lit up.

4:37 p.m.

I stared at the time for several seconds before managing a quiet, "Wow."

My voice sounded terrible.

I had slept for nearly the entire day, and judging by the eleven notifications waiting for me, my family had been very aware of that fact. There were three messages from Harper, two from Brooklyn, one from Hudson even though he was literally somewhere downstairs, a message from Mom asking if I was awake yet, and another from Dad telling me there was soup in the refrigerator despite the fact that Mom had already left a note beside my bed telling me the exact same thing.

My brain was still too tired to process any of them.

I rubbed one hand over my face and unlocked my phone.

Then, without thinking, I opened Riley's messages.

It was habit.

That was all.

A habit built over years of waking up and telling him something before I had even fully remembered how to be a person. Sometimes it was good morning. Sometimes it was a complaint about having to get out of bed. Sometimes it was a photograph of my hair sticking up in a way I found personally offensive. Sometimes it was nothing more than a single question mark because, for reasons neither of us remembered anymore, we had once decided that sending someone a question mark with absolutely no context was hilarious.

That afternoon, my half-asleep brain did what it had done hundreds of times before.

I typed a message.

I just woke up and I think sleeping for seven hours somehow made me more tired. Explain that, Romeo.

Then I pressed send.

I set my phone beside me, pulled the blanket higher around my shoulders, closed my eyes, and sat there in the quiet warmth of my bedroom.

Three minutes passed.

Three entire minutes.

It took exactly three minutes for my brain to wake up enough to remember that Riley didn't know who I was.

My eyes flew open.

I stopped breathing.

"No."

I turned my head slowly toward the phone lying innocently beside me.

"No, no, no."

I grabbed it so quickly that the charger ripped out of the bottom and fell to the floor. My fingers shook as I opened our messages, and there it was, sitting beneath years of conversations Riley no longer remembered.

I just woke up and I think sleeping for seven hours somehow made me more tired. Explain that, Romeo.

Delivered.

My entire body went cold.

"Oh my God."

I stared at the message like it might jump out of my phone and scare me.

The message, obviously, did nothing.

It just sat there.

Menacingly.

I knew messages didn't have eyes. They couldn't judge people. They couldn't jump out of phones and physically attack anyone. Still, I held my phone slightly farther away from my face because that particular message looked like it was considering all three.

"No."

I pressed my finger against it.

Held it.

Tapped something.

Panicked.

Nothing useful happened.

"Delete. Delete. Delete."

I knew deleting the message from my phone wouldn't magically erase it from Riley's. That didn't stop me from desperately wishing technology would suddenly change its rules specifically for me.

"Come on."

I pressed my finger against the screen again.

The message remained.

Delivered.

That one stupid word beneath it suddenly seemed enormous.

I dropped backward against my pillows.

"Oh my God."

My heart was pounding.

What had I done? What if he saw it? What if someone had given him his phone? What if he opened our messages and saw years of conversations between us? What if he saw the nickname? What if he read everything?

My heart began beating even faster.

There were years inside that phone.

Years.

Thousands of messages, photographs, videos, voice messages, arguments, apologies, inside jokes, and every stupid thing we had ever sent each other at two in the morning. There were pictures Riley had taken of me when I wasn't looking and photographs I had taken of him just because the sunlight looked pretty on his face. There were entire conversations that would make absolutely no sense to anyone except us.

What if he opened our conversation and started scrolling? What if he found messages from the night I told him I loved him?

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

"No."

The word came out louder this time.

I stared at my phone.

He couldn't see it.

Surely he couldn't.

The doctors wouldn't have given Riley his phone.

Would they?

I thought about everything Dr. Salloway had told us. Familiar things could help, but they needed to be introduced carefully. Nothing overwhelming. Nothing forced. No pressure to remember. A phone was practically an entire life stuffed inside a rectangle. Contacts, photographs, messages, social media, notes, search histories, calendar events, and every piece of himself he had collected without realizing it.

They wouldn't just hand it to him.

Right?

I slowly lowered my phone.

"Okay."

I took a breath.

"He doesn't have it."

My heart continued pounding.

"He definitely doesn't have it."

I nodded to myself, as though that somehow made my completely unsupported theory more convincing.

"The doctors probably have it."

I paused.

"Or Willow."

That seemed more likely.

His mother probably had it. Maybe it was still with his belongings from the accident. Maybe the screen had shattered. Maybe it was turned off in a plastic bag somewhere with his wallet and keys and whatever else had been recovered from the car.

I exhaled.

There.

Fine. Everything was fine.

Riley didn't have his phone. He couldn't see the message. He couldn't read our conversations. He couldn't stare at the word Romeo and wonder why some strange girl kept calling him that.

I was safe.

Probably.

I looked at the message again.

Delivered.

My stomach twisted.

"Stop looking at me like that."

The message continued existing.

I locked my phone and tossed it onto the other side of the bed. Then I sat there for approximately ten seconds before grabbing it again.

Still nothing. Of course there was nothing.

What had I expected? A reply?

My chest hurt.

That thought had arrived quietly.

Too quietly.

Because beneath the embarrassment and panic, beneath the desperate hope that Riley didn't have his phone, there had been something else. A tiny part of me had been waiting for the screen to light up. Waiting for his name to appear. Waiting for three little dots to show up beneath the message.

I stared at our conversation.

The last message Riley had ever sent me was still there.

Proud of you.

And now, beneath it, was mine.

Sent days later.

Sent to a boy who no longer knew why I called him Romeo.

I pressed my lips together.

This was ridiculous.

It was one message. One stupid, sleepy message. If Riley saw it, I could explain. I had already told him about the nicknames. He knew I used to call him Romeo. He knew we had been best friends.

He knew I had been in love with him.

Unfortunately.

I groaned and covered my face with both hands.

Why had I told him that?

I dropped my hands.

No. That wasn't fair.

He had asked. I had answered.

Honesty was good. Honesty was healthy. Honesty was also humiliating and should probably be illegal before nine in the morning.

My phone buzzed.

I screamed.

Actually screamed.

The sound that left my body was so embarrassing that I immediately looked toward my bedroom door even though I was completely alone.

I grabbed my phone.

My heart nearly stopped.

Harper.

Mom wants to know if you're alive.

I stared at the message.

Then I threw my phone down again.

"I hate everyone."

From downstairs, I heard someone shout, "We can hear you!"

Hudson.

"Go away!"

"I'm not in your room!"

"Go farther away!"

His laughter carried up the stairs.

I collapsed backward against my pillows and tried to calm down.

It didn't work.

My eyes kept drifting toward my phone. The stupid thing sat there like a bomb. Finally, I grabbed it again and opened Riley's messages.

No response.

Good. That was good.

I didn't want a response.

I absolutely did not want a response.

A response would mean he had his phone, which would mean he could see everything, which would mean disaster. No response was good. Wonderful. Perfect.

I hated it.

I scrolled upward.

I shouldn't have. I knew that before my thumb even moved.

But I did it anyway.

There we were.

Everywhere.

Riley complaining about work. Me sending him pictures of cats I saw sitting in windows. Riley telling me I had left my sweater in his car. Me telling him it lived there now. A blurry picture of Riley holding an enormous bag of popcorn at the movie theater. A photograph of me asleep in the passenger seat of his car with my mouth open.

DELETE THAT.

no.

RILEY.

art belongs in museums.

I hate you.

love you too juliet.

My thumb stopped. The words blurred.

I blinked quickly.

There it was.

Juliet.

I touched the screen gently.

He had said it so many times. Hundreds, probably. Maybe thousands. I had never counted. Why would I? I had thought we had forever.

I scrolled again.

You home?

yes.

Proof.

I am literally texting you.

could be a ghost.

You're an idiot.

alive?

Alive.

I kept scrolling.

Text me when you get there.

You are not my father.

correct. your father is nicer to me.

Unfortunately.

alive?

Alive.

Another conversation.

Home.

alive?

Alive.

My throat tightened.

How many times had we done that?

How many nights had I gone home and sent him one word without realizing there might come a day when he wouldn't understand it?

I scrolled farther.

Goodnight Juliet.

Goodnight Romeo.

Another.

night juliet.

Night Romeo.

Again.

goodnight.

That's it?

what.

Where is my title?

goodnight your royal annoyance.

Better.

I laughed.

Then immediately started crying.

The laugh and the sob tangled together until I didn't know which one I was doing anymore. I pressed my phone against my chest and closed my eyes, trying to breathe through the sudden ache spreading beneath my ribs.

This was what Riley had lost.

Not just memories. Not just birthdays and childhood plays and family vacations.

This.

The ordinary things.

The things no one thought to photograph or write down because they seemed too small to matter.

The stupid messages. The same jokes repeated a hundred times. The automatic text me when you get home. The nicknames neither of us remembered choosing to keep.

Everyone kept bringing Riley the big memories.

Photographs from vacations. Birthday cards. Favorite things. Stories about childhood.

But what about the tiny memories?

Who would give him those back?

Who would tell him that he always stole the marshmallows from my hot chocolate? Who would tell him that whenever we walked anywhere crowded, I hooked one finger through the belt loop of his jeans so we wouldn't get separated? Who would tell him that he always turned the volume down when I started talking, even if his favorite song was playing? Who would tell him that when my hands started shaking, he held one between both of his without asking what was wrong?

Who would tell him that we never said goodbye without making sure the other person got home alive?

My phone felt heavy in my hands.

Maybe that was why I had sent the message.

Not because I forgot. Not completely.

Maybe some part of me remembered exactly what had happened and sent it anyway.

Because I missed him.

Because for three sleepy minutes, I wanted to pretend he was still there.

I looked at the message again.

I just woke up and I think sleeping for seven hours somehow made me more tired. Explain that, Romeo.

Delivered.

I sighed.

"Idiot."

I wasn't sure if I meant myself or him.

Probably both.

My bedroom door opened, and I looked up to find Brooklyn standing there with a bowl of soup in her hands.

"You knocked?" I asked.

"No."

"I could have been changing."

"You've been asleep for seven hours."

"That does not make clothing optional impossible."

She stared at me.

I stared back.

Then her eyes dropped to my phone.

"What did you do?"

"Nothing."

Her eyes narrowed.

"Why do you assume I did something?"

"Because you have the exact face you had when you were twelve and accidentally sent Mom a text complaining about Mom."

"That was traumatic."

"You hid in my closet."

"It was a safe space."

Brooklyn walked into the room and set the bowl on my nightstand. "What did you do?"

I looked at my phone.

Then at her.

Then back at my phone.

"I texted Riley."

Brooklyn went still. "You what?"

"It was an accident."

"How do you accidentally text someone?"

"I was tired."

"That explains nothing."

"I woke up and my brain was foggy and I just did it. I didn't think."

Brooklyn sat on the edge of my bed.

"What did you say?"

I handed her the phone.

She read the message.

Her expression softened.

That was worse than laughing.

"Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You made the face."

"What face?"

"The sad sister face."

"I don't have a sad sister face."

"You absolutely do."

She handed my phone back. "Did he answer?"

"No."

The word came out too quickly.

Brooklyn looked at me.

"I mean, obviously not. He probably doesn't have his phone." I said.

"Probably."

"The doctors wouldn't give it to him."

"I don't know."

"Brooklyn."

"I said I don't know."

"That is the least comforting answer possible."

She reached over and picked up the bowl of soup.

"Eat."

"I'm not hungry."

"Eat."

"Why does everyone in this family think soup fixes emotional trauma?"

"Because Dad made it."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"Three bites." She said.

"No."

"Two."

"Brooklyn."

"One, and I'll leave you alone."

I stared at her.

She held out the spoon.

"You're insufferable."

"Genetics."

I took the spoon.

The soup was still warm. Of course it was. Dad had probably reheated it the second someone heard me moving upstairs.

I took one bite.

Brooklyn looked satisfied. "There."

"Happy?"

"Thrilled."

I handed the spoon back, and she set the bowl on the nightstand again. For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then Brooklyn reached over and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear.

"You know," she said quietly, "you're allowed to miss him."

I looked down. "He's alive."

"I know."

"So it feels stupid."

"It isn't."

"He's right there."

"I know."

"But I miss him." My voice broke.

Brooklyn's hand found mine. "I know."

I looked at my phone again.

At the message.

At the silence beneath it.

"I keep forgetting," I whispered. "Just for a second. I wake up and think I should text him. Or I see something funny and think I should send it to him. This morning, I almost asked him if he wanted coffee when I went to get some for me."

Brooklyn squeezed my hand.

"And then I remember."

She didn't say anything. She didn't have to.

I stared at the screen.

"It's like losing him over and over again."

Brooklyn moved closer and wrapped her arm around me. I leaned against her. For a while, we sat there in silence. Eventually, my phone screen went dark, and the message disappeared with it.

But I knew it was still there.

Waiting.

Delivered to a phone Riley probably didn't have.

Sent to a boy who wouldn't understand it.

I told myself that was okay. I told myself it didn't matter. I told myself I would go back to the hospital tomorrow, and I would tell him another story, and maybe another after that. I would give him pieces of himself until either his memories returned or we ran out of things to remember.

But as I sat there beside my sister, one thought refused to leave me.

Riley's phone held our entire life. Every message. Every photograph. Every stupid joke. Every goodnight. Every alive.

Maybe one day, the doctors would give it back to him. Maybe one day, he would open our conversation. Maybe he would scroll through years of a friendship he couldn't remember and meet the people we used to be.

And maybe, somewhere between the first message and the last, he would understand something I was only beginning to realize myself.

The hardest part of losing someone wasn't always the moment they disappeared.

Sometimes, it was all the moments afterward when you forgot, just for a second, that they were gone.