THE CLOUDS CRACKED open over our little extension of Carlton sometime before midnight, and with it came the brush of a feverish memory.

It was like getting a whiff of someone's old perfume, or walking into a childhood bedroom after many years away—simultaneously familiar and different.

I remembered a pair of Vans in my line of sight, the midsoles passionately doodled on with colored marker, as bedroom pop played through my earphones. Emma had been in a baby blue dress that barely skimmed her knees, her wavy hair partly tugged into braids, and the rest cascading down her back. She'd gestured for me to take a bud out, and I'd raised a questioning eyebrow, but obeyed.

"It's raining, and we have to walk home," she'd said, drawing my attention to the tinkling of rain against the roof. The hallways of our high school was empty, and I was pushed to wonder how long I'd been sitting in front of my locker with books strewn at my feet.

For a moment, I hadn't understood why what she said was something I should've cared about, but slowly, the realization sparked in my mind, and I felt my eyes double in size. "Shit."

"Yeah. Shit. I told you to come get me by four." She regarded the nonexistent watch around her wrist. "It's past five."

I scrambled to get my books into my discarded backpack. "You know you could've set an alarm, right?"

"You were the alarm! And you know how I get in piano classes, Sydney. Let's go!" She turned around without waiting for me, and I shoved the rest of my things in my backpack, dropping a pen I had to go back a few steps for.

"Are we really going in the rain?" I asked as I caught up to her, and she let out a maternal sigh of disappointment.

"Is your ADHD really that severe?"

"I don't think that's what ADHD is, Em."

"Then explain why I have to tell you one thing twenty times before it sticks."

"Again, I don't think that's what ADHD is."

She let out another sigh, this one more tired than disappointed. "There's a family dinner tonight, and I have to be home to help my mom out."

"I swear I knew that."

She rolled her eyes. "Of course you did."

When we pushed the double front doors open, we were met with persistent sheets of rain and a mostly empty parking lot. Emma and I stood there for what could've been thirty seconds but felt longer, weighing our options. Then I looked down at her, and after a moment, she regarded me, too.

"We're waiting it out, yeah?" I asked.

She nodded, once. "Definitely."

With the agreement, we lowered ourselves to the linoleum, and I remembered staring at the fierce  cougar in the mural behind her for a hot second. Then she'd kicked a foot out to nudge me in the shin and draw my attention. I knew we talked and laughed until her upset mom called to inform us that she was coming to pick us up, but I couldn't remember what it was about.

The focus of the memory wasn't the conversation, though. It was the cadence of her laugh. High-pitched and easy and musical, carving dimples into her cheeks and sending sparks to her green eyes. I was always only ever as happy as she was. She was like a bone in my body, one I'd be completely useless without. I couldn't remember meeting her, but I knew she'd always been there.

It was funny, how desperately I'd convinced myself that it couldn't get worse.

My phone vibrated on the coffee table, and it seemed a little too far away for me to reach, but I forced myself forward to glance at the screen.

It was a text from Jace.

Please tell me you ate this evening

He'd been fussing over me a little extra since I came down with the flu, checking in frequently to ask if I'd taken my meds, eaten, rested, needed help with that overdue political analysis paper, needed help with anything else. He'd dropped by a couple of times, either with meals he'd cooked himself or generous takeout portions, then sat with me on the couch and rewatched horror classics we'd already seen a hundred times.

Jace spent most of his days ricocheting between neverending classes and labs and hyper-focused study sessions. I didn't understand how he found the time to cook or text or do anything else, didn't understand how he did all of that without complaining or breaking down—at least, not anywhere near me. He was a great friend, and I wished I appreciated him better.

Do leftover chicken nuggets count?

He sent the blank face emoji in response, and I almost smiled.

Another text from him popped up.

JACE: I'll stop by in the morning

Aren't you working tomorrow?

JACE: I am

You don't have to, you know

JACE: This is where I leave you. Go lie down

How was the party?

He read the text but didn't respond as quickly as he did to the others. I knew he only attended the party because Amara was a menace when she wanted to be, so I could understand if it turned out as underwhelming as he expected.

JACE: I didn't really stay long. Gotta be up by 6. I'll see you in the morning

I had it in me to pester him about his response. Something clearly was off, but I let it be and exited the thread. My attention was instantly drawn to De's name two steps below his.

She'd texted last, a laughing-crying emoji in response to something I said that I didn't think was that funny, and just like I had several times since Wednesday, I debated texting her again. Maybe an apology for the way I acted, maybe something entirely different. But then I recalled the way the light had fallen from her eyes—

Nope.

I put my phone down on the couch, then pushed myself out of it.

Then I took a cold shower with my hands braced against the tiled wall, as lightning laced across the sky.

Even though it was mostly inconvenient, I thought about Désiré Rivers way too much. So much that I felt I needed to be stopped. I usually didn't allow myself to linger on people. It wasn't something I was well-equipped to do. But it was different when it came to her. She was like a nightmare, never quite gone even after I woke up, still licking at the corners of my mind.

It was too much, and I badly wanted to distract myself from it, but all I'd done since the night on the back deck was distract, distract, distract. It didn't seem to be working.

Unsurprisingly, I didn't get any sleep. I scrolled through Spotify's homepage for a moment and previewed albums and playlists without deciding on the right vibe. Then I reread the email from Professor Chin's TA and tried to draft a short response. Then I watched fifteen minutes of 1922. Then I scrolled through Reels on Instagram until I lost track of time and my eyes ached from the blue light exposure. I must've changed positions about twenty times, unable to stay comfortable. I rubbed at my forehead to ward off a growing headache, but it didn't really achieve anything.

After trying and failing to enjoy being in my skin, I settled for laying on my back and staring at the shadows on my ceiling as rain pattered against the window. Slowly, the image of doodled-on Vans resurfaced behind my eyes, and I pressed my eyelids shut, but not in time to stop the laugh.

I'd just been grabbing some food. I wasn't going out of my way to look for reminders of her. I'd been grabbing some food. The girl had been in line behind me, stifling her amusement beneath a ringed hand, but I heard it anyway.

She didn't even look like Emma. She was blonde and wore a sweatshirt that almost touched her knees. Her eyes seemed gray. Emma was all breezy sundresses and sun-kissed cheeks and emerald eyes and hair the color of dark roast coffee pods.

An ache bloomed in my chest, and I could almost hear the sound of grinding metal and shattering glass. Could almost feel the pressure, as though I was imploding, my heart dislodged from my chest. Subconsciously, I reached down to my side for the discolored scar. It was mostly faint now, and I didn't know if it was in my head, but the skin there felt different. Like a souvenir.

It had been warm that night. The edge of summer. When everyone was either celebrating the people they'd become in two months or mourning the things they'd lost. The summer before senior year. Life was changing, but it was hopeful. I'd made a mistake believing that.

When I drew in a breath, it trembled, blending with a rumble of thunder, and it was only then that I realized I'd reached too far down. I was remembering again, clutching my side again. I didn't do this anymore. I'd gone past this.

I took my phone without thinking and brought up the HKUP app. Jace's voice tried to push its way through my mind, but I shoved it down, too. I took a few psychology classes, so I was self-aware and educated enough to know that this could be considered an unhealthy coping mechanism.

When thoughts get too loud and memories resurface, some people call their therapists. I had noncommital sex. We barely kissed, we didn't talk about anything serious, they didn't stay longer than necessary, they didn't come back. It was unreliable, but it got my head quiet, at least for a while.

See: unhealthy.

I didn't know how long I scrolled for, but I came to in a sweat, to the sound of my front door clicking shut. My vision swam for a moment, and I took a couple seconds to get reaccustomed to my environment, before getting out of bed. According to the time displayed on the digital clock on my nightstand, it was 6:45 a.m.

That had to be Jace.

I rubbed one side of my face as I felt an ache start to brew behind my eyelid, and I reminded myself to get some Advil later. Jace would be working at the pharmacy today and would make sure to ask for a prescription even though the medication was over-the-counter, just because he didn't want me to have it, so I had to get it off-campus.

The living room was empty when I stepped into it, and everything looked just the way I'd left it last night, save for the plastic bag on the coffee table.

Definitely Jace.

There were three separate bowls in the bag. One held white rice, the other stewed chicken, and the third fried plantains, the perfect golden shade of brown. I caught myself cracking a smile, because he seriously made all of this before 6:45 on a Saturday morning, knowing I probably wouldn't eat it all.

A crisp note sat at the bottom, and I unfolded it to read the contents.

I think I put a little too much salt in the pollo guisado, he'd written in that neat cursive handwriting of his. If you stared at it too long, you'd think it was printed. He took his penmanship that seriously. Will check on you later.

I didn't go back to bed. It was almost impossible to. I took another shower, threw on a sweatshirt and sweatpants, grabbed my phone and AirPods, then my keys, and started walking.

The air smelled clean and charged, Boston cleansed from the rain last night, but the sky was still quite dark, as though threatening another downpour. I didn't mind it. I had nowhere to be today, and I loved the rain.

I didn't know where exactly I was going, didn't have any plans, but when I stopped around 7:30, it was outside Grace's Place. The sign was still flipped to closed.

I looked beyond the glass, expecting to see her there, either wiping down the counter or cleaning the tiles. Just like the last two times. But it was a guy in there. He looked bored, leaned lazily against the countertop and scrolling through his phone, waiting out the minutes until he could flip the sign. He didn't seem like he'd brew as good as she would.

A cool but gentle breeze blew against my face and stirred the ache behind my eyes, and I was reminded that Advil was what took me out of my apartment.

I'd walked past a pharmacy about five minutes ago.