Page 78 of Citius

Opening the front door, I nearly stepped on a to-go coffee cup and a red gift bag with my name scrawled across it in messy capital letters. The handwriting sent a rueful pang through me. I knew it. Would have known it anywhere. I had seen it countless times before—on the tags of othergifts, and on the sides of other drinks left outside my hotel room during high-level gymnastics events.

I glanced at the opposite door, wondering if Wyatt was watching as I knelt to pick up the cup and bag before withdrawing into the loft. The items were unexpected, but the fact that Wyatt had figured out we were neighbors first? That didn’t surprise me at all.

After setting the gifts and my work bag on the entrance table, I removed the cup lid to reveal perfectly steeped hibiscus tea. My go-to drink before competitions because it helped to prevent muscle cramps and gave an electrolyte boost.

He remembered.

My gaze shifted to the gift bag. Red used to be my favorite color—my lucky color—before I’d lost the ability to look at anything brighter than a mild green without wincing. It’s why most of my leotards were red. And it’s why I suggested Grace and I wear scarlet the night of the accident. Even the hibiscus tea was red.

With my heart lodged in my throat, I opened the bag and peered inside. There were a handful of protein bars from my favorite brand when I was competing and two hardcover books. I pulled them out, surprised to find they were recent titles from fantasy authors I used to love—authors I must have told him about, once upon a time. We used to talk about everything.

He didn’t even like to read, especially not fiction. History books and sports statistics were more his speed, and he preferred biographical audiobooks when traveling.

Complicated names with extra vowels and silent letters? Forget it. His dyslexia had no patience for them.

Wyatt’s shiny new business card was paperclipped to one of the book covers, his cell phone number written at the bottom in forcibly legible digits. A sticky note hung from the edge of the card. Its message was simple yet devastating.

Ten years of triumph. Proud of you. – W

A schism opened in the base of my skull, running from my once-fractured vertebrae straight into my central nervous system. It hurled me through space and time, back to that terrible moment when my scrambled brain rebooted.

I understood something was wrong but couldn’t grasp what it was. My head throbbed, my vision blurry, and the world seemed nebulous. Unreal. Yet even through the haze, I could tell my parents were thinner,ragged. My hands seemed to be attached to someone else’s body. Nothing moved how I wanted. I just didn’t feelright.

At least I knew the date—October eighteenth.

Except it wasn’t. It was late January of the following year. And nothing would ever be the same.

Today wasn’t October eighteenth. It couldn’t be. I would have noticed. Sensed its approach with creeping dread, fending off interview requests and ignoring unknown phone numbers, the same as I did every year. Ethan or Kelsey would have said something last night. Jacobi would have called.

Didn’t I have another week to prepare myself?

Ignoring my shaking hand, I pulled my phone from my work bag. The screen lit up, displaying the one date I didn’t need a calendar reminder for. Or so I’d thought.

There was a text from Grace, hoping the day landed gently and promising she’d call later.

Then a message from Rory popped up, overflowing with heart emojis and a picture of the misty autumn morning outside his dorm room window.

They’d remembered. Even Wyatt had remembered.

But I hadn’t.

I was the problem. Me.

How could someone forget the tenth anniversary of the worst day of their life?

A single tear hit the phone screen. Just one. I couldn’t afford to let a second one escape. If I did, my head would split apart within the hour.

“Are you okay?”

Kelsey stood at the top of the stairs in her pajamas, worry etched into her features.

I shook my head and pulled off my glasses, digging my palms into my traitorous eyes.

“Need to call out?” she asked gently.

“Can’t. Just need a minute.”

“Are you sure?”

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