Page 77 of Shattered

And I hold on to that until I can lie in his arms again tonight.

I don’t travel with my mom, but there are some bits of Bex’s I want to get. Bohdi said for the time being I can store stuff at his until I go through it and decide what I want to keep. There isn’t a lot, but I can’t see myself throwing any of his stuff out. My phone pings and I pull it out of my pocket

Sir:

I’ll park down the road from your mom’s and take your time.

Apparently, Denny already questioned why Bohdi was at the funeral. None of my other teachers were, so that’s why Bohdicouldn’t give me a ride home. Kal’s dad stepped in. Now, I sit outside the trailer, my heart heavy from saying goodbye to Bex.

People claim that goodbyes are the final chapter, but they’re wrong. Bex’s memory lingers, etched into every reflection I catch in the mirror. Inside the trailer, I bypass the familiar surroundings, heading straight for our shared bedroom. A cardboard box awaits me, and I begin taking down photographs. It’s a bittersweet task, each image capturing Bex’s infectious joy. These snapshots are my lifeline, the tangible traces of our happiness.

Next, I open the nightstand drawer, revealing a stack of old diaries. Nine of them, each filled with our secrets, dreams, and whispered promises. I place them carefully in the box. Knowing that on the toughest days, I’ll reach for them, tracing Bex’s words with UV pens, as if he’s still here, writing them just for me.

Next, I open the wardrobe. I had already taken a few sweatshirts out of here. Wearing Bex’s clothes is something that makes me feel closer to him, but now I can have his whole wardrobe. Once I’ve taken everything off the hangers, I glance down at some screwed up clothes at the bottom. Picking those up, I notice a duffle bag zipped up.

I place the clothes I had in my hand and open the duffle bag. It’s filled with clothes, shoes and two diaries. I pick the diaries up and open one up which has a UV pen buried into it. With trembling hands, I shine the pen on the first page, but there’s nothing. My gaze shifts to the second diary, where faint indents reveal hidden writing. My heart races, and I sink onto the bed, the UV pen quivering in my grasp.

“Please don’t let this be what I think it is.” Shinning the UV pen on the page, I read the writing . . .

Bray,

Do you remember when each day you didn’t wake up with that tight feeling in your chest like a weight was baring down on you?

Do you remember the days when breathing was easy?

Do you remember the days when you woke up with a smile and not a sinking feeling in your stomach that something wasn’t right, but you couldn’t pinpoint what it was?

Do you remember the days when I didn’t have this monster swimming in my veins and drowning me from the inside?

Do you remember the days when you woke up happy?

Do you remember when I was your best bro?

I miss those days.

I need you to think of those days for me and hold on to them.

I need you to do that for me, OK?

I promise, those days will come back. I need to go away for a little while and find myself again. I need to be on my own and clear my head. I can’t be here, around these people, around that poison that I crave so badly.

I’ll never get better and I want to.

For us. For me.

I’m not saying goodbye. Because this isn’t goodbye. Your twin, your other half, is coming back like he used to be, I promise, Bray.

I have taken one of our diaries we used to write in so I can read them back when I miss you so much it hurts.

You’ve been missing me for years now and I’msorry.

You’ll always find the old me in those pages, Bray.

Just read back and I’ll be there.

I’m going to write notes to you so you can read them when I’m back.

Don’t stop writing to me, I’ll be back to read them.

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