CHAPTER 6 #4
I flipped through the pages, the text blurring as my eyes filled with fresh water.
The handwriting began to change near the end.
It became frantic, jagged, the ink smeared by what looked like dried tears.
She was suicidal. She had been writing about the darkness in her mind for months, a deep, clinical depression that I had been completely blind to because I was too busy being angry, too busy being the victim of a stupid, twenty-minute mistake.
And then I reached the last page. The date was written at the top—four in the afternoon. Just two hours before I arrived on the bus.
The paragraph was short, written in a heavy, dark ink that pressed so hard into the paper it almost tore the sheet:
“I’m writing this because I don’t know how else to stop the noise.
I died because of love, I think. Or maybe I died because I loved a woman who will never look at me again, a woman who will never love me back.
Miley Palmer. And truth be told, if we’re being completely honest, it’s all my fault.
I ruined the only good thing I ever had, and now I have to live in the silence of what I did.
But I can't live without Miley. I can't breathe in this empty space anymore.
So death is my only recourse left. The ceiling fan looks appealing today.
It looks like an exit. God, Miley... if you're reading this, I only hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me one day.
I love you always. I'll love you over my dead body.”
The book slipped from my fingers, hitting the linoleum floor with a soft, hollow thud.
A sound broke out of my chest—a ragged, choked scream that didn't belong to a twenty-year-old girl.
It belonged to something ancient and broken.
I fell forward, my face burying into my mattress as the tears finally came in a violent, suffocating torrent.
I cried until my ribs hurt, until my throat was so dry I couldn't form words.
It was my fault. If I had just answered her letter, if I had just looked at her in the library, if I hadn't been so cold, she would still be breathing.
She would still be here, reciting her poems.
Kira didn't say anything, but I felt her sit down on the edge of the mattress next to me, her hand coming to rest on the middle of my back, holding me steady while the room shook around us.
***
Going through the remaining semesters of college after Alicia’s passing was a blur of gray weather and silent classrooms. The campus never felt the same.
The quad was just a collection of paths where a girl had once walked with her head down.
I blamed myself for every single inch of that rope, and three weeks after the funeral, I found Maxine sitting on the steps of the library alone.
I walked up to her, my head down, and apologized for beating her up that day.
Maxine had just looked up, her split lip healed into a faint white scar, and shook her head.
"You were just venting, Palmer," Maxine had said, her voice quiet. "We both loved her. You just loved her more."
Funny enough, after Alicia died, Maxine never bullied anyone on campus again. It was like the rope had pulled the poison out of her too.
It was Drake’s music—specifically that track, "Over My Dead Body"—that got me through the tough times for the remaining semesters.
I played it every morning before my exams. I played it when I walked across the stage to receive my diploma.
I came out of college a changed woman. Harder.
Smarter. Completely guarded. I swore to myself that I would never take things lightly whenever I heard that specific four-letter word again: Love.
Love was a high-voltage wire. If you touch it with bare hands, it will burn your life down to the ash.
"We are here, miss," a voice said, cutting through the music like a knife through fog.
I blinked, the grey concrete of Buffalo disappearing instantly, replaced by the sleek, towering glass facade of Mid-town Manhattan. The male Uber driver was looking at me through the rearview mirror, his eyes curious, probably noticing the slight moisture at the corners of my eyes.
I pulled my AirPods out of my ears, the sudden, aggressive roar of New York City traffic rushing into the cabin, instantly obliterating the nostalgia.
"Thank you," I said, my voice smooth, my professional composure sliding back over my face like a visor. "I'll be giving you five stars on the app. Have a good day."
"Thank you, appreciate you!" the guy called out as I opened the door.
I stepped out onto the wet pavement, the morning air brushing against my face. I adjusted the lapels of my trench coat, grabbed the strap of my bag, and looked up at the massive chrome letters gleaming above the entrance: E-TECH CORP.
The glass doors slid open automatically as I approached.
I wiped the last ghost of Alicia Gray from my eyes, stepped through the threshold, and walked into the lobby, ready to take on the world.
I had an internship to dominate, a future to build, and a CEO named Helisa Smith who needed to see exactly what I was capable of.