sixteen
She doesn’t come to our woods again. I hold out for five days. Then, I text her.
Eden? Are you ok?
No reply, of course. It’s not even marked as ‘seen’.
I need to know if you are ok.
I’m losing it here.
The fifth day passes me by. I’m numb, unable to do anything. It’s about midnight now, and I’m lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. Refusing to admit that I have lost her.
Talk to me .
An hour passes. I resend it desperately, fully aware of how pathetic I am.
Talk to me.
I’m ok , the reply comes two minutes later, and I jump up in bed .
Are you here? I type.
I’m here, Isaiah.
When will I see you?
I’ll see you tomorrow, as usual , she replies.
Then, again: I can’t stay away from the woods.
From you.
I’m sorry for what I did… I’m sorry.
I sit up to type furiously: You didn’t do anything wrong.
I made you leave. And I wish I hadn’t. I don’t… I don’t want you to be alone after what happened. I don’t want you to be alone, ever.
Don’t worry about me, Isaia h. I’m ok. I have you.
In a second, all the messages disappear, deleted.
She did tell me she might delete our texts in case her dad sees them, but I didn’t expect her to do it immediately.
It doesn’t matter anyway. I remember every word. I see her words in my head, as clearly as if I could scroll back and read our entire conversation again and again.
Don’t worry about me . As if that’s ever going to happen.
I’m ok. Somehow, I don’t think she is ok.
I have you. That much is true. Boy, does she ever have me.
I’ll see you tomorrow, as usual.
And on that, I sleep.