Page 77 of I Wish I Would've Warned You

The truth is: I hate this house.

It’s too clean. Too quiet. Too far from everything that matters.

I thought distance would help. That putting miles between me and Pittsburgh would keep my chest from caving in every time I thought about her.

It hasn’t.

I still see her in every detail of my day.

And I still hear his voice in every corner of my life.

So, no. The silver frames won’t fix it.

But at least it’s one more thing I can choose for myself.

30

EMILY

Campus shifts with the season—green giving way to gold, gold to fire. By mid-September, the breeze carries that first bite of cold, and students start layering their hoodies over T-shirts, clutching coffee cups like anchors.

I walk the same paths every day: to class, to the library, to the bus stop, to nowhere. Leaves crunch beneath my boots, and I start to like the quiet. I start to crave it.

The texts from my mom come like clockwork.

Long blocks of over-explaining. Passive-aggressive updates. Photos of the backyard swing set she thinks I care about. I stop reading them after a while. Stop opening them altogether. One day, I hold down her contact and pressmute.

No sound. No buzz. No reminder.

Just silence.

The occasional “I’m sorry” arrives through snail mail—printed on floral stationery with just enough faux elegance to feel performative. But I get the feeling they’re from Aidan’s staff and not her.

My mother has never spelled out the wordyour. She always writesUR, even in birthday cards. She hates writing anythinglonger than a paragraph by hand. Always has. She says pens make her fingers “cramp up.”

So no, I don’t buy the sudden surge of heartfelt effort. I don’t believe in her ability to change.

I’ve done that too many times before.

And every time, I’ve been wrong.

Sometimes—just for a second—I check my inbox.

Not for her.

Just to see if anyone else remembered I still exist.

31

EMILY

Ionly agreed to go to Hoboken for Thanksgiving because Taylor wore me down. Somewhere between late-night phone calls and shared playlists, she managed to become an actual friend—like, a real one. The kind that doesn’t push when you’re quiet but always knows when to nudge anyway.

She dropped out of college last month to pursue songwriting full-time, and, to my surprise, she’s actually good at it. Really good. The kind of good that makes me think, maybe, I’ll follow her to Nashville this summer if I don’t burn out first.

Coming along for the trip is Justin—a guy I met in my essay writing class. He’s what you’d call Cole-lite. All the surface-level charm without the emotional weight, without the knots and shadows. He lives in Hoboken too, so we’re riding up together. He’s stopping by to say a polite hello to my mom and Aidan.

Me? I’m not staying for dinner. I’m not spending the evening pretending.

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