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I hear the whispers.

“She’s the one.”

“Poor Quinn.”

“Poor Mrs. Turner. Can you imagine it?”

And I step deeper into the darkness. I’m warm there.

I’m sheltered from the blotchy memories. I’m told they are too horrific for my mind to allow me access. Dissociative Amnesia. The selective variety, the doctors explained.

All I have are jumbled up images that make no sense, and get distorted when I try to focus on them. My memory may come back, or it may not, but the important thing was to stop trying to force it.

So, for eleven years, I’ve had days cut out of my memory. In the gap is where I settle my mind. Where it’s dark, and quiet, and only I can fit.

“What can I get you, Harley? Your usual?” Samanthaasks from behind the register. I’ve known her since we were in elementary school together. She was Quinn’s best friend up until seventh grade.

She probably blames me.

If I knew the whole story, maybe I would too.

Quinn was a ray of sunshine. She shone so brightly; it pushed me into the shadows. Why should I have been the one who was chosen? It’s this question that keeps me mindful. I need to be worthy of the life given.

“Yes, please.” I pull out my phone, swiping open the app to pay for my Grande caramel latte. Same coffee, same seat at the coffee house, same time each day. Teaching fourth grade has taught me how important routine is to keep an organized life.

My mind may dance with chaos in the darkness, but I have to live out here in the light.

“We’ll have it ready for you in a just a minute.” She smiles, already looking at the customer behind me.

I find my usual seat. A small booth in the back corner. I’m able to see the front door from here. It’s important to always be able to see the door. That way I can tell who’s coming at me.

The book I’m reading is buried at the bottom of my bag. By the time I dig it out and lay it on the table, the barista calls my name.

I hurry to the counter to grab it, but when I get there, there’s only a small cup with the name ‘Zack’ scribbled on the side.

Thinking I’m hearing things today, I sit back down and wait. But my name isn’t called, as another drink is put out on the counter. The only other person standing nearby takes it and walks out of the shop. I glance over at the workers; they’re wiping things down, chatting. No one’s making another drink.

I sigh and head to the counter to check the cup again.

It hasn’t changed. It still reads Zack.

“Hi. I heard you call my name, but I don’t see my drink.” I wave slightly at Jacob who’s wiping down the steamer.

He looks over at the counter, then picks up the drink.

“He must have taken yours.” He points to the window. “He’s sitting out there. I’ll make you a new one.”

I twist to see who has my drink. My stomach sinks.

It’s him.

The same man from the shop two days ago. From the grocery store yesterday.

He’s looking at me through the window, sipping my coffee. I can’t see his eyes; his sunglasses are on. But his eyebrow arches again, and he leans back in the chair like he’s ready to wait for me as long as it takes.

It’s not normal to feel someone beckoning to you when they aren’t making any gestures or sounds. But that’s exactly what’s happening.

“I’ll take this to him,” I offer, grabbing his coffee from the counter.

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