Her

69

PHOENIX

In autumn, Aza and I fell for each other, fell like the leaves from the trees. Winter approached, and it got colder. So did our love. But we built a fire, tried our best to keep us warm. And we managed to. And what will happen in spring? Perhaps our love will blossom again, blossom like flowers do in spring. Or perhaps it won't.

My brother's death brought me the coldest days of my life. He took with him the warmth and the sunshine. And she brought it back to me.

There will always be cold days. And there will always be warm days. Even in winter, there's sunshine, and even in summer, there's rain. It has been starting to get cold again, and I don't know when or how that will change. Aza and I stopped seeing each other a few days ago. It's weird, and painful, not seeing her for even a second a day when I'm so used to seeing her almost every hour a day. And it's weird, and painful, that I don't see her anymore, but I still see her.

I see her when my phone lights up, I see her when I see someone wearing a leather jacket, I see her when I'm in my car and I look to my left, expecting to find her, and I don't find her. I see her when I visit Ky's trailer, knocking at his door instead of hers, walking past her trailer, and all I want to do is go back, knock at her door and ask her to let me back inside. I see her when I see someone with a cup of coffee, because she works in a coffee shop, and I see her when I see someone taking a photo, because she loves to take photos, because she's a photographer, the best I know. I see her when I watch a movie, I see her when I listen to a song, I see her when I read a book. I see her when I look at art because she's both an artist and art. I see her when I see a couple, a girl and a girl, a girl and a boy, a boy and a boy. Her and me. I see her when I see a family. I see her when I see an adult, I see her when I see a child. I see her when I see a cat, I see her when I see a dog. I see her when I see flowers, I see her when I see the pictures she made me, which I kept even though I know I shouldn't. I see her in the morning, when I wake up, blink, move closer to the left, half awake, half smiling, half expecting to find her, half reaching out, and when I open my eyes, I don't see her. But I do see her. I see her when I don't see her. I see her everywhere. And I see her nowhere.

I don't know what we are. I don't know what I want us to be. And I don't know what we will be. All I know is that I'm waiting for it to get warmer, for spring to come, for the sun to come back. And I don't know when or how, but I know it will.

_____

AZA

"Are you ready?"

"What?" I turn around.

"What are you doing?" Cass says.

"Nothing," I say.

She looks at me. Then she looks at where I'm standing. At my wall with photographs. Photos which - some of them at least - show Phoenix. A lot them show her, actually.

"I don't know what to do with them," I say. And maybe it's rather what I want to do with them. I know what I should do with the photographs; I should take them down. But I don't want to. I don't want to let go of them, of her. It's how I feel about her. I don't want to let her go, but I know I can't keep her. But then, how could I even keep her? I've already lost her.

"I can't tell you what to do," Cass says.

"I know," I say. "But it'd be nice if you did."

"Well, I won't."

"Thanks," I say. "Where are the others?"

"Ready, bitches?"

Ky and Eli have appeared, almost as if I summoned them by magic. I can't help but think that if I were able to do that, I'd summon Phoenix. Stupid brain.