Page 11 of Their Arrangement
My best friend.
My almost-sister.
The girl who once swore she’d never leave me behind.
And did.
Or maybe... I left her.
The last time I saw her, we argued.
Over nothing.
She wanted to take me out—some party, a rooftop loungeopening. Something loud and ridiculous and beautiful in the way everything she touched was.
I had the flu. Couldn’t keep down water. Couldn’t sit up without shaking.
I told her to stay. To skip it.
“I’ll stay,” she said, brushing my curls back from my face. “It’s not important.”
But I told her to go.
I told her I’d be fine.
She kissed my forehead. Laughed.
“One drink. I’ll be careful.”
That was the last thing she ever said to me.
I reached out without thinking. My fingertips grazed the edge of the frame. Cold glass. Warmer metal. I didn’t touch her face. Couldn’t. I pressed my fingers to the background, to the shadow behind her, like maybe I could absorb the moment she existed into my palm.
A lump built in my throat. Thick and useless. I wanted to press my forehead to the glass, to say something—anything—but the words wouldn’t come.
What could I say?
I’m sorry I didn’t make it to the funeral until the last minute?
I’m sorry I left the reception without a word?
I’m sorry I couldn’t face what you became—ashes and memory?
I swallowed it all.
Like I always did.
I didn’t hear the footsteps behind me until they stopped just a few feet away.
A pause.
No movement.
Just presence.
Then—
“She hated that photo.”
