In the twenty-three days we mostly spent together, I came to learn about Isla Miller not quite in the way other people did.

When most people had approached her first because she just looked that easy to talk to, she was the one who initiated it with me. When her cheerful personality seemed to charm people, I found it annoying. And how when her ex cheated on her, many people just couldn't understand why he would, I was pretty much ignorant about the matter.

But in the end I was the same as the others. I liked seeing her get excited over talking about the things she loved. I kept looking over my shoulder on the days I didn't see her around. And the most important thing, I didn't understand why Victor would even think of betraying someone like Isla.

He was lucky enough to actually have her in his arms, and he just threw everything away.

God knew I would do anything to take that opportunity from him, to rub it in his face that he was a goddamn idiot and make him regret it even more than he already did now.

But particularly, I wanted him to be the one suffering by being in my current place.

I stayed with her until her last hours, she told me a secret I never thought she had, she actually managed to help me overcome my addiction, and I was so close to telling her about what I felt for her, so close to do the thing I didn't know I wanted to do for so long, but was too oblivious of the remaining time that I had.

I couldn't do anything for minutes.

The dim light surrounding us—only me, now—was the only thing that prevented me from closing my eyes and pretending that she was still here, around, and instead forced the harsh reality onto me, hitting me with the heavy existence of the paper bag I had on my lap.

In a daze, I reached for the tape sealing it close. The faint ripping sound of paper sounded loud in my ear, and I needed to take a deep breath before fully parting the bag's top.

Planted in a small rattan pot, forget-me-nots stared back at me.

"Shit," I breathed out. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to reach for the small card tucked in the bottom, but was too scared to find out what it said.

In the end, I shakily took it out.

The heart-shaped card felt bittersweet, and funnily enough her sweet words of wishing me a happy birthday overwhelmed me with nothing other than bitterness.

I was angry.

At her, for still approaching me even if she knew that it wouldn't have a happy ending. For not saying the words I had guessed she wanted to say. And at myself, for knowing perfectly the meaning of these blue flowers, for wanting to do nothing but throw them away, for being mad at her.

I threw the package onto the floor.

⌛️

"—ey, Grey!"

I blinked, settling with the blurry view of the cafeteria before everything came back to focus. Nixon's dark eyes were the first thing I saw, then flitted to his hand on my shoulder, grabbing firmly.

"What?" I muttered, pushing my still-full food tray away. I didn't even remember ever taking a slice of pizza or even purchasing a can of soda from the vending machine.

"The bell just rang," he stood up straight, staring warily, "let's go."

Stifling a sigh, I reluctantly stood up. "Right."

Though he didn't say anything the whole length we walked to History class, I could tell that he was staring. That had been going on all morning. Like he knew something big, and wasn't sure if I knew it too to talk about the matter with me.

When he cleared his throat for the fourth time, I sighed in frustration. "What is it?"

He bristled. "What? Nothing."

"You want to say something, spill."

"No, I just—" seemingly giving up in staying silent, he clucked his tongue. "You know what? Okay. You see, Isla and I, we're pretty close."

I wanted to tell him that I really, really, didn't want to talk about her, but I cocked my head to let him continue anyway.

"Our moms, they're best friends. And—and this morning, she . . ."

I stopped walking. He followed.

He hesitated on continuing, turning his eyes away upon seeing my glare. "She told us about what really happened to Isla."

I hated that I needed to hear this from Nixon.

"It wasn't a car accident."

I hated that Nixon was avoiding my eyes.

"And it wasn't a murder, or anything like that, she . . ."

I didn't want to hear it. I didn't want to be told that my suspicion was correct. I didn't want to believe that Isla—

"She killed herself, Grey. She—" I heard Nix take a deep breath, rubbing his face with his hand. "I don't even know anymore. I couldn't believe what her mom was saying, though her hysterical crying was really convincing."

I couldn't breathe.

"She found Isla in her bathroom," he kept on talking, oblivious to how I was biting my tongue so hard I tasted blood, "she overdosed. Sleeping pills."

Stop.

"I just don't get why she'd do it, she never told me anything about having problems!"

Stop talking.

"She just looked . . . so happy all the time," he whispered, leaning his head on a nearby locker. "I'd never thought that—Grey?"

I swallowed. "What?"

He didn't say anything for a few beats. I still had my head down, feeling his stare digging into my head.

"Dude," he whispered shakily, taking a step forward. Hand reaching out, pulled back when I flinched.

"Grey," he dropped something roughly onto my head. It was his cap.

With a grunt, I slapped his hand away.

"Don't be difficult, man," his voice sounded strained, and once again, he covered half of my face with his hat, "you're not the only one crying."