He Left Me Alone

59

Before Audrey Wilde came to me that day, it never occured to me the thought of how Logan died. He didn't have any diseases. He didn't die because of accidents, either. But I refused to think about it. It was not like he would come back to life if I knew how he died anyway.

It felt like he just vanished one day, leaving me alone, with a big, ugly throbbing scar that I wasn't sure would heal.

It was during lunch break, nearly months after he died. Only weeks before a graduation that Logan would miss.

Audrey sat across from me on the same table with me. She was small. And cute. She had ombre on her hair which I was confused whether the color was pink or purple. Or both of them.

She wore a black floral sweater. Though, I didn't know why she wore sweater. It was nearly summer.

"God, I can't do this," she said after an eternity of us staring at each other with a big question mark hanging in the air above my head, while eating lunch. "I'm Aubrey."

"I know. I'm Thomas."

"I know."

I opened my mouth to ask where she had known me. But I didn't ask.

"I knew Logan, too."

Hearing someone talked about him in past tense sent a little pain to me that made me realize how real it was.

"He was in my English class," she added.

"So, are you guys friends?"

"Kind of, we were partners in some poem assignments."

Then there was silence. I stared at my lunch, or my hand, or whatever that wasn't her.

"I'm sorry, Thomas. Your boyfriend was a good guy."

'Your boyfriend'. My boyfriend. And he was dead.

"If you're here only to say sorry, I understand. I mean, thank you. I appreciate that. But I've heard that a lot."

I didn't meant it to sound this rude, but it did.

She looked surprised. But another look came across her face as if saying : okay.

"I am not. Actually, I have something," she reached for her yet purple Jansport next to her, pulling out a notebook. She placed the notebook on the table next to her lunch. "Like I said, we were partners in some assignments. And once, Mrs. Black made us exchange poems," she held out a paper. "This is Logan's."

I almost forgot that Logan wrote poems. Maybe because he never let me read them.

"I want you to have this."

She handed me the paper. I just replied with a small, "Thank you"

Just when I started reading the poem, she exclaimed, "Don't read it here, please."

"Why?"

"Because, uh," she hesitated. "He said that it's just about this movie he watched, but, oh my god how do I put this-"

"Why?" I cut her off.

"I think the poem is related to his, un, you know, death."

A particular thought of how he died came to my head as fast as the word could be : suicide. What if he committed suicide?

It couldn't be. He did not commit suicide.

I felt my grip to the paper loosen.

"But I don't know, okay? You should figure it out," right after she finished the sentence, the bell rang. "I've got to go. Talk to you later, Thomas."

She threw a small smile and left.

Leaving me a piece of paper that might have an answer to his death.