demanded you be my best friend. I fought for you, Mia. And it’s fucking killing me because you—you’re not even fighting for yourself.”
I once read somewhere that a different version of you exists in the mind of every person you meet, have a relationship with, or even make eye contact with. The person you see as yourself only exists to you, and everyone else has a unique mental image of you based on what they see.
My entire life I saw myself as a fighter simply because I was here, and I was smiling, and I was a believer of faith.
But I wasn’t fighting for anything.
I wasn’t even living for anything.
I was merely surviving.
I had no visions of my future, and just the thought of college made me anxious. I thought that New York had changed me; that having friends and a boyfriend meant that I was growing up and that I was finally creating an image of myself that I was happy with. But it was all a facade, and everyone saw it but me.
I pull the corner of Papa’s blanket across his bed and straighten the pillows. I’d already cleaned his bathroom, changed the bed sheets, and made sure everything was ready for his arrival tomorrow.
Tomorrow’s going to be a big day. Papa’s coming home, and I’m finally going to fight for what I want: Leo.
One hand on the doorknob, I give Papa’s room a quick once-over, and when I’m satisfied, I switch off the light, layering the room in darkness, and click the door shut. Then I prepare myself for another sleepless night. I quickly brush my teeth and then go up to my room, open the door. A gasp catches in my chest when I see Leo sitting on the edge of the bed, his elbows resting on his knees. I didn’t even know he was in the house, let alone my room.
“Sorry,” he says, looking up at me, those blue eyes the same way I’ve seen them since that night in the barn: pained. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“It’s okay,” I reply, and it comes out a whisper. “What um… what are you doing here?”
He’s in jeans and a blue long-sleeve tee with the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, his cap backward. He looks like he’s about to go out, not go to sleep. I feel like today’s been the longest day in history. I don’t know how he has the energy to keep going. “I need a favor,” he says.
The room is only illuminated by the lamp, and he’s nothing but shapes and shadows when I close the bedroom door, saying, “Anything.” And then I lean against it, my hands behind my back, because the way he’s looking at me makes me nervous and I don’t want to get close.
“I found a bus route home that leaves tomorrow morning. But I need to get to the depot. It’s, like, twenty miles. I asked Holden, but he’s doing some important delivery with his dad so he can’t do it. I have to be there before eight, and your grandpa’s not coming until lunchtime, so you should be back by then.” He’s speaking as if this is the last conversation we’ll ever have, and I hate it.
Tears form in my eyes, and I blink them back. He wants to leave. Tomorrow. Because waiting a couple of extra days would be too hard.
“Do you think you could give me a ride?”
I push off the door. “No.”
“No?”
I stop in front of him. “No.”
His eyes search mine, and I pray he finds the answers there. His gaze drops as he fishes his phone from his pocket. “I’ll book a ride then.”
“No!” I move forward until I’m standing between his legs, my hands on his shoulders as he looks up at me. I know I’m about to lose him, and I know I should say something, do something, that I should fight for him, but I don’t know what to do. I’ve never fought for anything in my life. And so I cry, because it’s the only way my body and my mind know how to process emotional turmoil. “I don’t want you to leave,” I whisper.
“Mia…” His shoulders drop, and then his arms are around my waist, and he’s pulling me to him, his forehead resting on my stomach. “I can’t stay here like this. It’s too fucking hard.”
“Stay,” I plead, my hand going to the back of his head, holding him there. I look up at the