Page 25 of Runaways

It's been a year. An entire year, and I still have to worry that every time I close my eyes, I'll be haunted by memories of that summer until I open them again. If I'd have known they'd ruin me so completely—so deeply that even reminiscing about the hurt feels better than anyone else has made me feel since—I never would have let it happen.

But I didn't know any better. When you don't know better, toxic can feel like passion. At least it's loud. At least it's better than nothing.

After a week of hateful texts, Mia never spoke to me again and blocked me on all social media. She sent me one last message to reiterate what she thought of me and that I was dead to her before going dark.

And I did what she asked. I stayed away. I made sure she never had to see me again, even though I was in crippling pain and really, really fucking needed a friend.

I returned the favor a few days later when I blocked Tate and Silas.

I had to let them all go; I thought if I did, I'd be able to move on. Silas texted me for a while, and it was nice, but he wanted things to go back to normal with the three of us. We'd talk, andhe'd tell me how much he wanted to see me and how much Tate missed me.

When Tate messaged me, it wasn't so nice. He'd tell me to get over it, that it wasn't a big deal, and I needed to stop being childish.

And I've been lonely—so lonely since. I've made new friends, I'm no longer a house plant at school and at parties, my classes at Holbridge were challenging and interesting, and still, nothing helps. I feel like I'm walking around with a gaping hole in the center of my chest—a hungry, dark void desperately trying to make itself whole again, but seems to sate it.

I'm surprised no one notices it—the hole, I mean. Granted, some days are far worse than others, but it's always there. No one stops to point it out; no one pulls me aside at school and says,My god, Noah. What is that thing, and why can I see right through you?

And so, I never say,Oh, that? That's the place where all the things that made memeused to go, but I lost them, and I don't know how to put them back.

Because no one really knows me. I can't say he didn't warn me.

And it's been far worse since they buried Mia in July, just two months after their mother died.

I'm not sure how it happened, but somehow, I ended up just outside it all, an unwilling audience with a front-row seat to the events that led Mia to take her own life.

But I didn't touch it. I didn't realize it until it was already too late. Not that I could have done anything, anyway.

I guess that's a big part of why I'm sleeping past three in the afternoon, my body moving slower and heavier than usual with the weight of all that's burrowed under my skin. It's crushing me now.

According to my mom, Silas and Tate are missing now. Silas's mom called her last week, thinking I might have seen them, and said she'd reported them missing to police. But they packed bags and took Silas's car, so the police ruled them runaways, and adults are allowed to run away if they want to.

I grab my phone from the nightstand and check my messages. There's a drunk text from Leo, a former classmate I hooked up with a couple of weeks ago, one from Brielle asking what time I'll be over today, and a DM from a faceless Instagram account around four in the morning with a username that's only a string of letters.

I know it's from Tate before I open it. It didn't take long after I blocked him for his messages to turn hateful. They never stopped, but they slowed down…until recently.

That's why I don't spend any time worried about what happened to them. If Tate's still sending me hate mail, he's just fine.

I HOPE YOU CAN'T SLEEP AT NIGHT, YOU EVIL HEARTLESS BITCH.

Eh. I've had worse. And I don't sleep at night—not without seeing him.

Slowly, I force myself to sit up and get out of bed. My new bedroom is bigger than the main living space in my old apartment, with dark hardwood floors and modern furnituredecorated in white, yellow, and grey. It's not what I would have picked for myself, of course, but that didn't really matter. This place was only ever meant to be temporary. I've always felt kind of like a visitor, and that's only more true now with most of my things in boxes again. Only this time, I'm leaving for college.

As I cross the room toward my bathroom, Paul's voice roars from downstairs, causing me to jump. Not long after, I hear a crash—maybe glass breaking—and my mom cries.

Well, I'm supposed to leave for college. If I can bring myself to leave her here with him.

Silas was right about Paul, but it took a lot longer for Paul to prove him right than I expected. It was slow—slow enough that I thought it wouldn't happen. He was loud; he liked to yell and complain, and I thought that was all it was. He bought me a car, paid for dental implants to fix my top teeth, and took us to Disneyland in the fall.

Christmas came and went with an engagement announcement. They eloped in Vegas the following month and looked happy in the pictures.

The first bruises and busted lips came after Valentine's Day. They tried to keep it a secret for a while—until Paul hit her in front of me for the first time—and then I guess they just figured,why bother?

She screams, pleading with him to stop, apologizing for whatever he thinks she's done to deserve it this time, and I wipe tears away from my eyes. I turn on my music to drown out the yelling downstairs while I fix my hair and apply makeup, then I tie on a white bikini, pull on a pair of denim shorts, stepinto my sandals, and cautiously step out of the room, checking to make sure the yelling has stopped before heading downstairs.

My mom is kneeling in the kitchen, sweeping the remnants of a shattered picture frame onto a dustpan.

"Mom?"

---