AllFreeNovel
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"Do you need a ride?" she asks, looking over her shoulder for my dad. I lift my hand, bringing it to her arm. She flinches, looking back at me.
"I could use the fresh air."
Her face softens, a sad look covering her features. "Go ahead, we'll meet you at the cemetery in an hour."
I attempt to give her a smile, but I don't think one lifts my face.
Instead, I walk out, my flats soundless as I walk through the parking lot. So many cars, different sizes, colors, makes, models, prices. Our small town is busy this weekend. The famous rock star that lost his life during 9/11 isn't going to go unnoticed. Everyone heard. Hearts were broken all across the world.
Our sleepy town turned into a tourist attraction, and people flooded the doors of the church with such sorrow on their faces like they've lived here their entire lives.
They haven't. The truth is that no one knows him. No one except for me.
I walk through town, past my old dance studio. It's no longer a dance studio, but a bakery. I glance away without staring too long, my heart aching in the deepest areas of my chest. I smoosh the notebook further into my breasts, wishing this permanent pain would lessen over time, but I don't think that'll be the case. Over the days, the pain has only grown stronger.
There's a crisp breeze in the air, the weather inconsistent this time of year. We usually get a snowfall that melts right away. Then it snows again, and repeat. The chill in the air makes me feel like snow is on its way. The trees are stuffed with the most colorful leaves, from brown, to red, to orange. Some have fallen, their crunchiness tumbling across the streets with a light scratch.
I turn left, passing the park. It's empty, the swings blowing in the wind. There's a slight creak from the metal hinges. I glance away, my eyes burning with emotion. Every step I take is painful, my joints and muscles filled with an overwhelming amount of exhaustion. I brush the back of my hand against my face, and when I pull my hand back there's a streak of mascara on my skin.
My shoes crunch the leaves that have gathered to the sides of the streets, and my hands grip the notebook, my fingers pushing in between the pages.
What did you write to me, Roman?
It feels like he's close to me, with just this simple notebook. Something that he's touched. Written in. Something that he's hunched over, with pain in his heart and mind.
The cornfield is knocked down for the winter, and I can see over the hill, far out into the distance.
I make it to our houses, walking in between our yards and down the grass. My shoes kick the leaves, big piles gathered in our yards. What used to be well-manicured has turned into a mess these last few weeks. None of us have the ability or mindset to do something as simple as raking the leaves from the yard.
I head down to the lake, the stillness of the cold air shocking it into place. Barely any waves crest the shore. Maybe the lake is in mourning, too. Maybe it knows the greatness that has left this world, and it has no energy to shake the waves to shore. Maybe it's numb, like me.
I head onto the dock behind Roman's house, the boards loose and creaky, but I still walk down the length, all the way to the edge. Crossing my legs, I sit down on the cool wood, the breeze chilly out here as it brushes my hair away from my face.
I press the notebook against my lap, running my fingers across the hard cover. There are so many scribbles in it, so many scratches and doodles. My fingers run across the guys' names, stopping as I hit Roman's. It's his handwriting. A little messy, slightly illegible. Like he doesn't have enough time to slow down for just a moment to pick up his pen until he gets to the next letter. No, everything is mashed together. He pushed the pen too hard, too, as his letters are indented into the cover. I trace each letter, his scrawl so familiar it fills my chest with pain.
My fingers curl behind the cover, and I lift it, my throat closing up as I see the guys' songs. Some of their popular ones, the ones that still play on the top hits on the radio. My nose burns, and I use the sleeve of my dress to wipe the run.
I fold the stiff pages, crinkling from being unused for so long, and my eyes start to water the further I get into the book.
The boys lied to me. At least a little.
Maybe this started as a music book.
But it's not how it ended.
The first few pages are filled with music. But the music turns into poems. Poems turn into letters. Some pages are just filled with my name.
I miss you, Luna. Come home to me.
I wipe my eyes, the first tears since that day rolling down my cheek.
I can feel you out there, Luna. Can you feel me? I'm in so much pain.
I know, baby. Me too.
I don't know how to keep going without you. Where are you?
I'm here.
