"Pretty girls like you get lost in these woods all the time, Alexa."
On the night of Sebastián's annual Beginning of Summer Bash, amiable and adventurous Melody Tryniski went missing. What might have appeared as a juvenile escapade - a casual incide...
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"DOES IT MATTER?"
"IT does when you're in the woods this late," I say with an almost breathless voice.
"You're here too, aren't you?"
I sigh, my shoulders slumping. "Guess I am."
As he studies me under the half-moon's dim light, I focus on the shadows that make of his face a dark mosaic. Dark gray shadows covering one green eye, half of his straight nose, his chin. Half of his face covered in pitch black darkness.
The contours of his face are not right.
His jaw is not sharp enough, his cheekbones are too high, and his chin is too round. His eyes are green instead of blue, there are freckles dotting on his nose and cheeks where unblemished porcelain skin is supposed to be, and a tight-lipped smile on cherry-colored lips instead of a smirk on perfect pink ones. His voice is not deep enough. His words and how he arranges them to form a sentence are too perfect.
He's not my Christopher. I blame myself for getting my hopes up.
"You're disappointed," Micah says, tilting his head to the side. "Waiting for someone? Christopher?"
Hearing his name so alive in the voice of someone who considers him unharmed further opens the wound his death has created in my soul. I can't help but flinch, not because he spoke him alive with his question but because it feels like someone is jabbing at that wound. It may be intangible, something that you can't see or touch or taste, but it aches in the same way my heart needs to beat.
The pain is what's keeping me alive, while also making me feel as though I'm already dead.
"Don't worry. I won't ruin your date night," he says, kicking some pebbles and twigs to the side. "I'll just keep you company until he comes."
"Then you'll be here forever," I mumble, my voice too hoarse to be my own.
Micah frowns and opens his mouth to ask the question that I don't want to answer. So, I turn around and sit in front of the riverbank. With my back to him, I'm free to let the tears flow on top of the dry ones. The wetness returns the mobility to my face. With a loud sigh, I take my hands away from the dirt that covers the edge of the riverbank and wrap my arms around my knees. They are tucked between my chest and hands, protecting my heart from any more pain. The act of hugging myself brings me comfort, at least to a minimal degree. I rest my chin on top of my knees and try to decipher what the water is trying to tell me with its natural undulation.
How sad, the way hope dwindles and vanishes in the matter of seconds. How stupid of me to think that the first time will always hurt more than the last. The last time always hurts the most because you're reminded of what you've lost. Christopher's death has revived their deaths --- Melody's and my mother's. My heart is breaking all over again.
