“I’m just running errands,” I would say, when I was really buying ivory silk thread from a craft store because Eli had texted me a list.
On the fourth day, I went into her room to switch her laundry and found a notebook beneath the bed. Not the freshman-year one I had peeked through months earlier behind the paperbacks. A newer one. Sophomore year, written in her tighter, angrier hand.
Roommates& Shares
Names. Pages of them.
Girls who whispered when she passed. Boys who posted things the week after Mason’s funeral. Comments she had screenshotted, printed, and tucked between the pages like pressed flowers turned black.
I sat on her carpet and read every page.
