The street lamps twenty-two stories below us kept our faces from fading into the darkness, though I doubt Morgan’s eyes could ever shine more exuberantly than they did on top of her dad’s office building that cool Halloween night. Her long pale fingers fluttered at her side, the wind brushing them up against mine, inadvertently I’m sure. Still, I couldn’t resist pressing my fingertips into her palm as she gazed down to the city from the concrete’s edge. Through our skin, I could almost feel the nerves in our hands shock each other, connecting and disconnecting, constantly making us aware of what we had and what we were losing with each severed connection. I took nothing for granted – at least I thought I didn’t – until Morgan turned to me. Her long brown curls covered her dry, red lips as she spoke. “You know we could jump, James,” she said, “and just die. We’d know what death was.”

“You make it sound so simple,” I said.

“It is.”

***

Six months earlier, on a Friday that began sunny but ended with rain, Morgan Lily Robinson invited me to the rooftop for the first time. She didn’t specifically ask me to join her twenty-two stories above the pavement; so I had really very little reason for concern at the time.
“Dear James Hilfman, I’ll pick you up at eleven. Wear something black,” she scribbled in a note passed to me during AP United States History.
Morgan arrived a few minutes after eleven that night, driving a dark blue van up to my house and blasting the car horn, which nearly knocked me off of the family room couch and did knock my mom out of bed. She hustled downstairs and gave me one of those “if I have any long term hearing issues, I am totally going to kill you with my bare hands and I won’t care about your screams because I won’t be able to hear them” looks. She smacked me on my cheek and went back to bed too tired to continue my punishment; though I had a feeling the worst of her scolding was yet to come.

A few lights flicked on in some houses down the street. You could practically hear the neighbors’ groans from my family room. Even my dog, who my mom and I thought was deaf, started barking in what seemed like an attempt to drown out the horn with a more familiar noise. Despite her obvious disturbance, Morgan’s horn repeatedly rattled my street until I hustled into the passenger seat of the van.
“Will you stop that!” I said.

“How do I look?” Morgan asked, flicking on the van’s inner light to reveal a black V-neck tank top and blue jeans that hugged her thighs like a toddler grips his mother. Her brown curly hair was tied back into a ponytail, though a few rebellious strands fell in front of her face and over her eyes. My loose, black polo felt flimsy and poorly chosen next to what seemed like an outfit with a conscious purpose. I always thought Morgan was pretty, but that night, she looked regular in the best possible way, like her prettiness was a secret just between us.
“You look good,” I said. “What are we doing tonight?”

“Patience, my friend. First, we need to add the finishing touches.” Morgan unscrewed the cap of what looked like a dirty lip balm container and started drawing two thick black lines on either side of my nose. “Tonight, we’re shadows,” she whispered. After finishing, and concluding she’d created a masterpiece, Morgan handed me the dirty lip balm and closed her eyes, but I hesitated for a moment to examine her face without the anxiety of her catching me. Morgan had these rosy cheeks that made her look like she was always blushing. She wore a constant expression of adorable embarrassment. As she waited for the eye black to cover her rosiness, I couldn’t help but think of innocence and how it abandons us, taking with it the flush in our cheeks the further we push into adulthood. From the ages of four to twenty-five, we gain knowledge. The ensuing corruption stains our minds, making it difficult to remember what it was like to name stuffed animals and pretend they were real. Our faces fade from red to a disfigured gray, absent of the blissful ignorance of our earlier, happier years. My mom tells me to stop thinking so much, but I promise you, Morgan’s cheeks were rosier that night than they would ever be again. I’m just glad I stopped for that moment to think about them.

Morgan didn’t flinch when I spread the dark lip balm over her skin, concealing her glow with sticky black paint. Without first checking herself in the mirror, Morgan asked me, “How do I look?”

“Like somebody ashamed of their cheekbones,” I said.

Morgan chuckled before hustling me out of the van. A black duffle bag was slung over her shoulder as she jogged to the building’s back entrance, a door with no engravings or ornate architecture like the front. She shoved a small silver key – stolen from her dad’s briefcase – into the lock without saying a word. The door opened. Morgan grinned at me. I smiled back and wondered if this was legal.

We climbed twenty-two stories to a blisteringly cold rooftop because apparently the elevators were turned off at night. The hike up the stairwell seemed like a waste to me as I tried to cover myself from a furious wind that barreled into my body and legs. My windbreaker offered little protection from the swirls of wind that gave my neck and arms goose bumps. I was just about to ask why we were spending our night atop an old, office building when Morgan turned to me, a plotting smile spread across her face. “You wanna smash some stuff?” she asked. The duffle plopped at her feet. She bent down, unzipped the bag, and motioned me over to look inside. She’d packed a pineapple, a VHS player, some Barbie dolls, an old alarm clock, and what looked like a glass container of expensive perfume.

I felt a little dumbfounded so I just looked at her with one eyebrow raised.

“Do you want to throw this stuff off the roof?” she asked a question, but it sounded more like an order.

“Why?”
“Does everything need a reason?”
“But, just, why this stuff?”

“Because they deserve to die.” Morgan said in a serious voice that caught me off guard. It was too dark to see the coloring in her face anymore. “The pineapple is prickly. It hurts if you hold it, not that anyone would want to. Pineapples taste gross. Then there’s the outdated stuff that just needs to go: VHS player, Barbie dolls, and this alarm clock. God, this thing annoyed me so much. I’m just glad to be done with it, you know? God, I need to be done with this.” She held the old alarm clock in her fingers. It had two bells on top and a white face with only an hour hand. At least I thought it was the hour hand. It was difficult to tell without the other hand to compare the length.

“What about the perfume?” I asked. “Why do you want to smash that?”

Morgan grabbed the glass bottle and walked to the roof’s ledge. She pressed the top, spraying her neck. Then, with as serious an expression I’d ever seen on Morgan, she tossed the glass container off the roof. She said, “I really hope no one gets killed by that bottle. But if they do, their dead body definitely won’t smell like a dead body. I’m glad to know that.” When she walked back towards the duffle bag, I caught the scent of the perfume. I couldn’t tell you exactly what it smelled like, but I can tell you that it reminded me of the first windy day after winter; the first one that you don’t mind. That’s the day you realize that the wind isn’t cold anymore so you let it cover your face and your neck because it’s so important to you. That’s how Morgan felt to me that night and every night after, like a strong wind letting me know that the winter was ending.

We stayed up there for a few more hours, tossing things off the roof and watching them crash into the cement: pieces of VHS player shooting in all directions; Barbie legs snapping from their plastic bodies; the pineapple bursting when it smacked into the cement. Morgan gave me the single-handed alarm clock. I hesitated at first – still wondering which hand was missing – and then dropped it to the ground. It fell just as fast as a clock with all its pieces would fall, but it crashed differently. The gears and wheels scattered from the impact, but unlike the debris of a regular clock, a small but noticeable part was missing from the wreckage.

Morgan laughed when it hit the ground. As we stood at the ledge looking down at the cement below us, she never turned to me. Never explained anything further. She just stared at the scattered remains of a few Barbie dolls, a pineapple, an alarm clock, a VHS player, and one glass bottle of perfume.
The eye black concealed Morgan’s rosy cheeks, and, for the first time, I thought a part of Morgan might be missing.
***
During my freshman year of high school, I rode the bus home from school each day because my mom had to work late. I didn’t mind it so much. My time in the window seat consisted mostly of reading or playing Tetris on my phone, which I found relaxing. I became very successful at maneuvering the squiggly piece into a corner opening, not that that’s actually impressive to anyone beside myself. Of course, the realization has certainly dawned on me that bus rides would have been a good time to be social or make friends or talk to anyone, but I much preferred my solitude. It was comforting to be able to think things and not have to transform those thoughts into words, which seems to be more difficult for me than my peers.

One day in early September, I was sitting in a window seat reading Catcher in the Rye, and trying to block out a high-pitched conversation a few seats over. Something about how Stephanie said this, which prompted Lacy to do this but shouldn’t have been that big of a deal because nobody likes Stephanie and, even if people did like Stephanie, nobody would really mind because the very same thing happened to Miranda last year with Angela, who is the girl that totally left because everyone was supposedly mean to her even though Angela is just super sensitive and she shouldn’t have made a big deal about it in the first place because, honestly, who cares?

I tried to retrace where I was in my book when a soft voice came from the seat behind me. Someone poked me repeatedly in the cowlick.
“Excuse me,” the soft voice said, “excuse me excuse me excuse me excuse me…”

I paused, put my bookmark on the page, and shifted my body around to see whose finger was prodding into my scalp. Morgan’s nose scrunched up like she had a cold. Her mouth was hanging open as though she’d been called on in class and had absolutely no idea what the answer was. I could see her teeth sticking out from under her top lip. I remember thinking how white they looked compared to everything else around me: gray weather, gray seats, gray roof.

I shut my mouth quickly to hide my silver braces, which didn’t come off until early in my junior year. “Uh,” I began, “yes?”
“You’re James, right?” she asked.

“Yeah I am, but you can just call me Jimmy if you want.”

“I like James better.”

“Okay.” There was a silence as I waited for her to continue. I didn’t think she’d poked my head fourteen times just to decide what to call me, but she just kept staring at me with those eyes of hers, which made me feel like I was doing something wrong. I started to wonder if this is what high school was like: a girl touches your head, calls you by a proper name, and then stares at you? I thought about all of this during the uncomfortable silence that continued to ensue until I bravely asked Morgan, “What?”

“I just wanted to tell you that I think you look nice today. James.”

“Thank – wait, what did you say?”

“I think you look nice today.” I remember thinking that Morgan didn’t sound like she was complimenting me, just telling me something obvious. She couldn’t help but be perfectly honest even when I didn’t ask for honesty. Someone looked nice so of course he should know.

“Thank you. I heard what you said the first time, but I thought I’d ask just to make sure I wasn’t assuming that you were paying me a compliment, which would have been awkward if that were the case.” Put your thoughts into words, Jimmy. Thoughts into words. “So thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Morgan said without smiling.

“You look nice too,” I said.

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” I said in an overly formal tone. “I mean I’m not just saying that because you told me I look nice. I really do think you look nice. I just thought it would have been weird to tell you that you look nice without actually knowing you – not that it was weird when you told me I looked good – I mean nice. That was cool. I just want to make sure you know that.” The words in Catcher in the Rye seemed so smooth and easy, like Salinger just opened his mouth and let sentences drip down onto the page. This was not happening the first time I talked to Morgan.

She just looked at me for a few more seconds then sat back down. I turned to my book and tried to concentrate but couldn’t despite my best efforts. I observed that Salinger was a hermit too, a social outcast who purposefully exiled himself from civilization to be alone in a cabin in New Hampshire. Maybe that was my future too: New Hampshire.

Something small touched my head again. I shifted around to find Morgan with her chin resting on the top of my seat. Our noses nearly brushed when I turned around to face her, but it didn’t seem like she noticed.

“I’m Morgan,” she said, smiling at me for the first time.
“Okay. I’m James.”
She giggled. “I know.”
“Oh right.” Morgan gave me a toothy grin, showing both rows of teeth, then sat down again.
We didn’t speak for the rest of the bus ride, but I found it difficult to concentrate on Catcher all the same. I spent the rest of my time in the window seat looking through the dirty glass at trees and thinking you cannot ask someone out who you just met on the bus a few minutes ago. She really wasn’t paying you a compliment or even being nice. Because people don’t like you like that so easily, Jimmy. It takes time to develop feelings toward someone. Or at least it takes time for other people.

Morgan got off the bus about ten minutes later without saying goodbye or showing any sign of acknowledgment. My eyes glanced around the street for a parent, but she walked up to a tall boy wearing a black blazer and expensive jeans. He’d neatly parted his hair to one side, which made him look like someone out of a young adult fashion magazine, if those even exist. At first, I thought he was Morgan’s older brother, but then he put his hands on her waist and below her waist and lifted her into the air and kissed her on the lips in front of everyone on the bus with his black blazer and nice jeans. And she kissed him back.
***
Morgan opened the door to the roof and motioned for me to follow her. She’d told me to dress in black again. We went through the same routine as the first night: sit in silence, apply eye black, break into the building, and climb twenty-two stories to an empty rooftop to discover exactly what Morgan had in store. She wore the same black tank top as the first night. I, on the other hand, had hastily bought a black button down, hoping not to look so skinny and twig-like again. Incidentally, the shirt was a size too big and hung down over my crotch, leaving me with the crucial decision of whether or not to tuck the shirt into my jeans. Eventually, I left the shirt untucked.
Morgan turned to me in that very “Morgan-way” she turns to people; her hair flying in front of her face but only for a second; her lips parted and curled into a smile that makes you feel like she wants to tell you a secret.

“So what are we doing tonight?” I asked. She didn’t have a duffle bag this night.

“There once was man,” she began without explanation, “born without eyes. His name was Spencer. Spencer grew up with holes where his eyes should have been. He never saw anything and never knew what sight was, but Spencer didn’t complain because he just didn’t get what the big deal was. Other people told him he was blind but that didn’t matter to him because, to him, there was nothing else besides blindness. That’s just how life was. And Spencer was happy his whole life. He grew up and had a wife and children and a job. For a living, Spencer went to hospitals and spoke to sick people about illness and sight. Because, James, what really scares the dying isn’t death, but what’s after death, especially if there’s nothing after death. All we’ve ever known is our sight and the pictures our thoughts create, and that is our lives. But Spencer talked to these people about not seeing and how it’s okay not to see anymore. The people listened, and Spencer gave them courage. Some of those people died, but they weren’t afraid of death blinding them because he made them brave.
“So Spencer spent all his time either with his family or at this hospital, which incidentally, was one of the best in the country and always came out with these amazing new treatments and experimental trials. Well, one day, the hospital approached Spencer and told him about a new special experiment for a person like him, a person born without eyes. They wanted to give him eyes. And he agreed to get the eyes. Well, after the surgery, Spencer saw all right. That’s what he did more than anything. He couldn’t stop seeing everything. And it broke him down until, one day, in front of his wife and children – so they could see – Spencer took a pistol and blinded himself permanently, the way the people in those hospitals were being blinded.”

Morgan had tears streaming down her face, but her voice didn’t tremble or break.

“Now tell me, James, is that courage?”

***

A few weeks later, we returned to the rooftop again. As we climbed the steps silently, memories of Morgan’s tears flooded into my brain, and I couldn’t get the image out of my head. For the past three years, we’d been friends on a day-to-day basis, some days more so than others. But this past year, we’d really become close, sharing book suggestions or renting movies starring Alan Rickman, who is Morgan’s celebrity crush. Honestly, I only find him attractive when he plays Snape, but then again I’m straight. I’m just saying I can see it. Yet despite the films and the literature and the simple dynamic we found ourselves in, the rooftop offered something more, something important. I just hadn’t figured it out yet.

Morgan took my hand and led me across the roof. Her hand felt warm, but her fingertips were chilled. The wind died atop the building, settling our clothes and hair to our bodies. Our fingers laced together as she brought me to the ledge, inches away from nothing but air and a quick death. Morgan’s skin looked smooth and pure, as though it had never been touched or kissed by anyone. As strong as I felt for her, as much as I wanted to pull her into me and feel her body against mine, something held me back other than just plain old teenage awkwardness and uncertainty. I felt like Morgan would consume me in the overwhelming rays of “awesome” she so often exuded around me. And that frightened me.

“If you were to die right now,” Morgan began, “what would you want to be buried in? Like what clothes? I assume you’d want to be buried in a box, probably a coffin. But what would be your death outfit?”

I think it’s a testament to my sanity that I didn’t have an answer prepared, but my pride soon turned to anxiety as Morgan began to describe her outfit just inches away from a fall that would provide a reason to wear what she described.

“I think I’d like to have my hair down and straightened,” Morgan said. “Not curled. No makeup except for a little lipstick. Maybe some blush, but just because I probably won’t be very colorful if I’m dead. And then this light blue sundress my mom bought me a year ago. It doesn’t fit me too well, but I won’t really care if I’m dead. That’s why I want to be buried in it though. What about you?”
“I – I haven’t thought about it. A suit maybe?”

“That would look nice,” she said. For a while, we just stood over Narren, looking down at our city a few minutes after midnight. Morgan’s fingers laced around mine and squeezed. She’d never touched me so intimately before. My legs began to waver back and forth and I saw the empty space in front of me inch closer and closer. The firm, rough touch of her hands left me uneasy and frightened, uncertain of what was next, if anything was next at all.

The lamps lining the streets looked distant and foreign to me, but also strangely accessible, just a misplaced step – or a well-placed step depending on your point of view – away from me. A breeze tickled the back of my neck, putting my hairs on end. My palm wiped a bead of sweat that had fallen over my eyebrow. I wondered, if it was daytime and the sun was high enough, could our shadows blend in with the building and cast themselves over the town, shading people from the heat?

“What do you think death is like?” Morgan asked, breaking the silence that exists on late night rooftop meetings. This must be what we came up here for, I thought. This must be what we’re talking about tonight.

“Do you mean death or the after-life?”

“Death. Like how can someone just stop being someone? Desires, dreams – fears. And then what? Nothing? I just want to understand. Understand how it feels to lose it all. Not to lose limbs or a job or a loved one, but literally yourself. It scares the hell out of me, James, because it’s so real. So accessible. If only I wanted it, I could have it.” Morgan sounded like she was crying, but her eyes were dry.

Once again, I took a shot at comfort. “I think it feels like you’ve gone to bed and have been trying to fall asleep for hours and you just can’t. And then, all of a sudden, out of nowhere, you slip into it. Your reality becomes distorted and random and your brain tries to make sense of everything that just happened. I think that’s what death does. It makes sense of life.”

Morgan smiled at me, and, for once, it was just a quiet smile. Almost sad.

I saw houses and streets and streetlights. It all seemed very nostalgic to me, like I’d never walked down there before and neither had Morgan. As we looked down from twenty-two stories up, we were looking at our playground, wondering how we could’ve ever been small enough to play there.

***

In late August, Morgan surprised me by picking me up with her blue van in the late afternoon. My mom yelled at me when she saw Morgan in the driveway, outraged that her son could be so reckless as to run off in the middle of the day without giving her a head’s up. She scolded and punished me for a few minutes, then let me go when her arm had no energy left. When Morgan asked me how my face and arms had been scratched, I told her I walked the neighbor’s unfriendly dog yesterday. She raised an eyebrow at me and started driving, not mentioning the scratches again.

We arrived at her dad’s office building before the sun had completely gone down, which offered us a completely new view from twenty-two stories above the ground. Everything – from the subdivision trees to Morgan’s nose – looked brighter.

“Do you think people have any idea we come up here?” I asked, attempting a suave smirk.
“I have no idea,” Morgan said. She turned her hips towards me. “And I really don’t care too much, you know?”
“Me neither.”
I stood there for a few moments and just tried to think about where I was and whom I was with and appreciate all of it. I thought of how badly I wanted to always be on this rooftop with Morgan Lily Robinson, who had rosy cheeks and soft green eyes and a smile that told you a secret. God, how badly I wanted to not be anything else ever again. But eventually we’d have to leave because one day it wouldn’t be enough, and even Morgan might fail to have that glow the setting sun gave her that day. I accepted that. And yet, for just a few minutes, I pretended like life on the ground floor didn’t exist for us, that we lived twenty-two stories above everything.

“How do I look?” Morgan asked.

“Well-lit,” I said.

“Good answer.”

We hung out on the roof for hours that night. Morgan had brought a basket filled with sandwiches and warm Cokes, which we forced down because there was nothing else to drink. As the sun dipped below white, billowy clouds, we talked about our lives like they were all that mattered. I told Morgan about being a teacher and getting out of this town. She said I shouldn’t be so eager, that there was a lot I might miss if I’m not careful. “I know,” I said. Then she asked me about my family. She already knew about my dad, who left my mom and me when I was little. Counselors said to allow myself to suffer and be upset about the situation, but I never really was too broken up about it. I guess I just never knew anything different, and that was okay.

When it started to grow dark, Morgan reached in her bag, pulled out the eye black and gave us each two thick lines to cover our cheeks. She asked me if hers looked okay. I said, “yes.” She stood up, walked away, and leaned over the ledge of the building, a sight that was becoming more and more familiar to me with each rooftop trip. I walked over to see if she was looking at anything in particular. The streetlights had just turned on as the night darkened. Even so, the lamps didn’t have much to illuminate besides pavement and old brick buildings. Yet, despite the lights with nothing to light, it was all so beautiful. The wind rushed over my face, blowing my hair back, and making my eyes water. A few of these quasi-tears dripped down my face, giving the illusion of crying. I turned to Morgan and said, “You know, it’s really beautiful up here.” She kept quiet for a few seconds, and then turned to me, tears streaming down her cheeks, staining her face with running eye black. “Everything okay?” I asked. “Is the wind making your eyes tear up?”

“I am so happy that you’re here right now, James,” Morgan’s voice trembled. “I don’t want to lose it all. I don’t want to just die and not be remembered. I want to leave a mark on someone or something, and I’m just not sure I can do that.”

“What’s wrong? Where is this coming from?”

“Can you just take me home? This has all been so great, but I still feel awful,” her voice shrunk to a barely audible whisper. “If the good doesn’t erase the bad, then what’s the point, James?”

“I don’t know, Morgan.”

“Me neither.”

I drove Morgan home, then walked back to my house, which took me around an hour, but I didn’t mind; at least not as much as my mom did. She hit me twice when I walked in, but I couldn’t care less. I apologized, washed off my smeared eye black, and turned on a documentary about polar bears. The light from the TV screen illuminated the couch and my face as I slowly drifted off to sleep.

***
For five minutes, we stood without words, our fingers tangled together. The world seemed so distant and different. A part of me wanted it to stay like that.

Morgan and I stood on the building’s ledge on Halloween, staring down at a city filled with people who had just spent their entire night dressed as someone else. My palm started to sweat, which made me worry that if Morgan jumped, she’d slip out of my grasp, and I wouldn’t be able to save her; or at the very least, join her.

During class that day – which we’d regrettably had on a holiday – Morgan had passed me a note:

I’ll pick you up just before midnight tonight. We’re going to the ledge. Wear a suit. This matters.
Morgan Lily Robinson

I made sure to tell my mom I was going out that night to avoid any sort of punishment. She seemed indifferent to her adolescent son wandering around in the city on Halloween, which kind of upset me; I’m not sure why.

Morgan pulled into the driveway around 11:45, but instead of honking the van’s horn, she rang our doorbell and quietly asked me if I was ready to go.

“Indubitably!” I said with a grin smothered over my naïve face. To my surprise, Morgan didn’t smile or smirk or show much reaction at all. Her eyebrows scrunched together, and she half-heartedly curled the left side of her mouth. She looked like a girl defeated.

That night, I decided to wear a black suit my father had once worn before he left us. It fit me pretty well, but one of the sleeves was a little short. Or maybe the other sleeve was too long. I couldn’t tell which one needed fixing. I picked out a red tie with diagonal black stripes and a white button down shirt I’d worn at my grandpa’s funeral a year ago. My fingers had tried to do something with my hair, but the entire thing turned into a random mess of hair and gel. So I smoothed it down and settled on the “messy – I don’t care” look, which I realized was somewhat of a copout, but I wasn’t in much of a position to have honest hair that night.

A black coat concealed Morgan’s dress, even the bottom hemming. As soon as we climbed into the car, a familiar smell wafted by me in the air. Despite the cold of late October, it made me feel warm, like the cold wouldn’t last for much longer and we’d have spring again. It smelled like hope, if that makes sense.

Morgan drove us to the building without speaking or looking at me. Once she parked in the lot, she clicked on the inside car light and flipped down the driver’s overhead mirror. She’d straightened her hair for tonight. Her hand reached for her purse and began to rummage through the wallets and old receipts before pulling out a small silver tube.

“Eye black?” I asked.

Morgan shook her head and put on just a touch of lipstick.

“Let’s go,” she said and pulled off her black coat to reveal a light blue sundress.
***
“You know we could jump, James,” she said, “and just die. We’d know what death was.”

“You make it sound so simple,” I said.

“It is.”

Morgan’s words were harsh and solid. She seemed to be saying them for her own benefit.

“So I’m going to tell you another story, James.” Her voice, normally confident and rich, wavered and trailed off at the end of her sentence. That scared me.

“Does it involve men with no eyes?” I asked.
“No spoilers.” Morgan drew her hand from mine. She stood on the ledge with her arms straight at her sides. “There once was a girl. A nameless girl. The nameless girl was very happy, living in a little town with bookshops and cinemas. They called them ‘cinemas’ in her town. It was a quaint little town where stores were called, ‘shops’ and grocery stores were called, ‘markets.’ She had a mother and a father, and everything was very normal. But the girl didn’t like that. She couldn’t stand the thought of normal. So when she was very young, the nameless girl met a boy much older than she was. He had great eyes, and the girl loved that about him. They were eyes you should trust and you do trust because trust is all you know. She followed these eyes everywhere; believing them, loving them. Then, one day, they stopped being trusting. But…she trusted him all the same, until it was too late, and she couldn’t stop him. And as she couldn’t stop him, as the world cracked and broke, she lost what she had and the nameless girl didn’t love her quaint little town anymore.”

No tears dripped down Morgan’s cheeks. She just grinded her teeth and whispered, “It hurts so much, James. If death wasn’t so damn scary, I’d – I’d – ” Morgan’s eyes fluttered shut, and her chin collapsed down into her chest as gravity began to pull her body forward. I stuck out my arm and wrapped myself around her. We fell back onto the rooftop. I held her for a few quiet minutes. I didn’t sob, and Morgan didn’t wake up. Then slowly, I heard a small whimper begin in my chest, and I saw tears streaming down Morgan’s face. She began to cry, then looked up at me.

“How do I look, James?”

“You’re okay,” I said. “You’re okay.”

The world didn’t seem so far away to me anymore. I held her in my arms, but I don’t think she needed it as much as I did. That night, Morgan told me how she lost the rosiness in her cheeks, why she applies blush everyday. And I didn’t care that she used blush. I just didn’t want either of us to be alone. Someday, my world will crack and break, and I just hope someone is there to tell me that my cheeks are still red.

***

When I was in third grade, they started teaching us how to write in cursive. My teachers said the skill would be valuable when we got older. So we practiced every day for about forty-five minutes – our handwriting “classes.” I wasn’t very good, but not awful. My real problem seemed to be keeping the words spread out enough and not overlapping the lines on my notebook paper.

One day, I was working on the homework at home on the kitchen table. My mom was cooking dinner, but came over for a minute to have a look at my work. She traced her finger over the lined paper, inspecting each word and letter. I thought she was going to scold me or punish me for my poor cursive. Gently though, a hand rubbed my back. She crouched down beside me and asked with as tender a voice as I’ve ever heard, “James, honey, are you having trouble writing within the lines?”

Yes, Mom. I was.

Thank you for noticing.