The un-missing (a Maya Hart story)

"I'm sorry."

Two years.

I haven't seen her in two years.

I keep thinking about one of the last things she said to me.

I didn't remember it two years ago.

Maybe it could have helped us.

It won't help now.

Now it feels like nothing will help.

We were studying.

"Farkle, you are just so smart," that's what she told me.

"Promise me you will stay this way?"

I almost laughed.

"Of course. I can't imagine a life where I'm not this way."

"Can you imagine a life without me?"

I should have seen it.

I had stared at her eyes so many times.

I should have seen that this time she wasn't just joking.

But I didn't.

I smiled and shook my head.

And I pointed to a word.

Elusive.

That was the word.

She didn't know what it meant.

I try to stay positive.

But I look at a sky full of stars, and all I see is her.

All I see is her sitting in a library window drawing the night sky in an old notebook.

Or when I see bright red roses in a store, all I see is her.

All I see is her dancing around the middle school gym and laughing at my jokes.

Or when I look at a bird in Central Park, and all I see is her.

All I see is her, telling me that I need to be protected.

Maybe I could have protected her.

I'm sorry.

-s