"But when you're gone, who remembers your name? Who keeps your flame, who tells your story?"

-'Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story', Hamilton

✕✕✕✕✕

Gold light filtered in through my bedroom window as the sun slowly descended beyond the Green Mountains. It was a picturesque sight to see, but my focus was less on the haze of the afternoon and more on the boy sitting at the end of my bed. In the rays, Will's skin had gone tan and his hair amber, dappled with beams of yellow and orange and white.

We were doing homework, studying the Fall of Rome for our upcoming history exam, but I couldn't keep my eyes on the paper. They kept flicking back to him, even when the light glinted off of the pen that he was determinedly writing with, momentarily blinding me. When my vision returned, I saw him turn to face me as he casually mused, "You know, when I took Ancient Civilizations, I kind of thought we'd be learning more important stuff. Like, why is Caesar salad called exactly that? Did Julius Caesar invent it?"

"The guy who created it was an Italian immigrant, and Caesar was his first name," I replied matter-of-factly. "And it was actually at a restaurant in Tijuana in the 1920s."

He raised his eyebrows, and in return his eyes - colored with that rich, deep, mossy green, with flecks of brown and gold - widened. "How do you know that?"

"I saw it on Jeopardy!"

We chuckled together, and I felt my heart beat lazily slow and much-too-fast all at once. Although he knew me better than anyone, ever since we started dating, I'd somehow felt on edge around him. It was a good kind of edge, though - the type you get when you can't stop smiling, when you look at someone's face and see your entire future ahead of you. What a lovely afternoon, I thought lazily to myself, as if I was some old-fashioned ingenue. I want things to stay like this forever.

"Lila!" Mama called up from downstairs, her voice a lilting melody, a bolero all on its own. "Food's ready!"

I glanced to Will, who grimaced. He went to start packing his notebooks, quickly saying, "I guess I'll leave, then."

No, I thought to myself. Please, never go.

"There's no need for that," I protested out loud. "I know things are... weird at your house. Are either of your parents even home to make you dinner?"

"It's okay. I'm 15, Lila, I can make myself toast or something." He averted those beautiful eyes, but that didn't stop their glow. Warmth radiated through my chest as I watched my boyfriend for just over a year file his things away in his backpack. Just like that, his section of the bed was clean, and when he stood, it became achingly empty.

Rapidly, I leaped up from the bed and grabbed his arm. "Will, I'm serious. You can stay for dinner. It's okay. I think my mom likes having someone other than Kat and I around the house, anyway."

Will smiled, but shook his head. "I don't want to be annoying," he said softly. "I feel like I'm such a burden on you guys, always taking refuge just because my dad has a gambling issue and my mom hates him for it."

My heart melted, like molten gold flowing through my body as some romantic alternate for blood. Though Will was witty and kind and rebellious and confident at school, his parents had always been a point of vulnerability for him. Their constant fighting was the only thing that could ever break his unshakable smiles and way with words - well, them and I, or so he said.

"You're eating with us, Nyquist, and that's final." I hooked my arms around his neck and leaned into his heather gray t-shirt. He slowly started to relax, and I murmured, "There's no need to be so self-conscious around my family. We've known each other for, like, 8 years."

"And they've been the best 8 years of my life so far."

We pulled away from each other, and I gave him a peaceful smile. "And we'll have many, many more ahead of us. But for now, we've gotta get downstairs before the food gets cold, or else my mom just might explode."

He laughed, and so did I, and everything felt perfect in that golden twilight. The type of perfect you can only find with those you love the most. Those whom you can spend the afternoon studying with and still be perfectly content. Those who glow in the sunshine like the angels of Heaven themselves...

I blink. There is no sunshine. There are no history textbooks. There is no spiced scent of chicken wafting up the stairwell. And worst of all, there is no Will.

No, I am not actually in May 2015. I am in October 2017, where the skies are overcast and the homework is boring and the bed is completely empty save for me and a single Psychology I worksheet. I sigh, wishing the same wish I always do.

My flashbacks to the crash itself have been getting better, but I can't stop thinking about all the good times, too. To make it worse, I'm growing surprisingly tired of my room, considering I haven't been able to hang out with Macy or eat anything other than cereal since my indefinite grounding. It's already been 3 days since Mama and I's little spat and my Floridian adventure, and we've been avoiding each other ever since. Not that it's hard, considering what I said is true - she spends the majority of her time at work.

She was always somewhat like this, but then Hurricane Irma and Hurricane Maria came in August and September, and her meteorologist instincts kicked into overdrive. She apparently hasn't been able to come back down since, even to her normal level of workaholism.

I'm almost relieved she hasn't been around, but I also know I need to just get it over with and make up with her. That's what I promised myself at Disney.

As if she knows I'm thinking about her, at that moment I hear Mama come in the front door below. Her heels click against the floorboards like patent leather spiders before stopping somewhere in the kitchen. Slowly, I raise myself from the bed and walk over to the door, preparing to go apologize. My hand is just about to turn the knob when a glimmer of silver catches my eye.

I whirl, hoping it's perhaps the light of Mor's scythe. But, to my chagrin, the room is empty, aside from something on my desk that I hadn't noticed before. I wander over and find a black card, its text metallic and shining and much too similar to that business card my reaper showed me all those weeks ago. Picking it up, I read:

Lila,

Events in my world have prevented me from coming to yours. However, I know you are facing issues with your mother as of late, so I figured the best way to solve it would be through completing your next goal. Don't panic, and good luck.

-Mor

My eyes narrow. What the hell, I think to myself. 'Events in my world?' What could possibly keep him there for long enough that he would just leave me a note? 

Immediately, I remember how beaten down Mor looked last time I saw him. The bruise on his lip, and the gray pallor in his already pale face... does he have enemies that are out to get him? Was he forced into going on the run? Some little bit of anxiety rises up in my chest, but then I remember that this man is a spirit of death and comes from a place much bigger and darker than just me and my childhood goals. Perhaps he just has other things to do.

Besides, Lila, I tell myself, If something had happened, he wouldn't still be doing his job.

Sighing again, I look back down at the desk and see there were 3 papers hidden underneath the card. As I scan them, any worry I have for the collector of my soul instantly dissipates.

These aren't just papers - they're tickets to see Hamilton on Broadway, my 10th grade dream come to life. My heart begins to race, just like it always does. Maybe that's how I'll die - I'll get so excited or panicked that my heart will over-palpitate.

My mouth curves into a small smile as I murmur out loud, "Oh my god."

Hamilton may be well known and respected now, but back when it was a bit more niche, Veronica and I and all the other Ashdown theater geeks would to jam out to the soundtrack everyday. Once, in history class, the teacher mentioned the Marquis de Lafayette, and Will and Jordan Costello burst out rapping Guns and Ships, fake French accents and all. They got in trouble for it, of course, but we all laughed about it at musical practice for, like, a week and a half.

I had drama club today, and it was as boring and awkward as ever, even without the bitterness between myself and Veronica. People still walk on burning coals around me, terrified of setting me off, and not quite knowing what to say anyway. None of them have seen Hamilton, but if I were to see it, surely they'd talk to me again, desperate to hear the details... right?

Who knows. It would be a nice silver lining if so.

And then there's what Mor alluded to in his note - it could help mend the rift between Mama and I. The only way to distract my mother from her work is to take her somewhere, which I now realize is probably one of the reasons I was always so happy on our trips to Havana. A trip to New York City could at least get her into a good mood, and maybe then we could express our feelings rationally.

There we go, my inner monologue continues, Making up with Mama and the Drama Club in one fell swoop.

Glancing at the tickets again, I see they're actually for tomorrow - Tuesday. If I can convince my mom, and Kat too, to spontaneously take off, then we could take the Vermonter train from Montpelier down to the city, spend the night, and come back Wednesday morning for a half day. 

In my mind, it seems so easy, but I'm completely ignoring the fact that I am grounded and Kat has perfect attendance and Mama is still mad at me. Even if I do get to go, all conversation will be stilted and bitter, and I know I'm going to be missing Will the whole time, too.

But I'm always missing Will. I might as well change up the location every now and then.

Clutching Mor's note in one hand, a glacial good luck charm, I pick up the three tickets and quietly open the door. Kat, just home from soccer practice and freshly changed, is coming out of her room just as I exit my own. She's wearing a olive green sweater, skinny jeans, and boots, which is remarkably stylish for her.

"Kat!" I murmur, and she whirls. "Are you going on a date or something?"

Her skin goes pale, before it quickly regains its color and she presses her lips together. "No, I-" her eyes float downwards, to the papers in my hand, and suddenly the topic is changed as she raises her eyebrows. "What are those?"

I hand them over, hoping she won't just brush them off. Within a moment, she's scanned them, and her mouth starts to part in surprise. "Oh my god, you got tickets to Hamilton? I thought they were like, impossible to get."

"I, uh, won them," I lie, knowing that if I bring Mor into this she'll only scowl and get all grumpy. "I know you're not a big musical person, but I was wondering if you and Mama wanted to go with me. It's all about America and immigrants and-"

To my own shock, she replies calmly, "I know what it's about, Lila. If you like music at all, it's kind of hard to escape right now."

Right. She likes music - I'd forgotten about that, of course. Even if we're cool with each other now, I never did follow up on that promise of getting to know her better. Maybe I should before I die. I want to know she'll be okay after everything.

"So?"

Kat brushes a loose strand of dark hair behind her ear, looks away for a second, and sighs. "I mean, I'd hate to miss a day of school. You know that."

"Of course." I pause, trying to figure out how to spin this so that she'll go with me. If it were just Mama and I, I'd be absolutely miserable, and besides, she can help my argument when it comes to convincing our mother. "But I think you deserve a break considering everything that's happened lately."

I'm hinting at Abuela's death, something we've hardly talked about since it happened. I thought maybe we'd grow closer over it, but she's been her tough, closed-off self and hasn't told me anything about how well she's coping. I have to wonder if she's getting by on her own, or if she's relying on her teammates, or something like that. I wish it was that simple for me.

Even without my knowledge of where she is in the grieving stage, my implication hits her right where I expected. Her expression softens as she murmurs, "Yeah. Yeah, you're right... I'll go."

Oh. Well, that was easy, I think to myself. Just like Mor, it seems Kat's growing softer... but if I'm the one making the reaper open up, than who is responsible for my sister's sudden character development?

Instead of straight-forwardly asking her, I say, "Oh, okay. That was easier than I thought it'd be. You're loosening up."

"Maybe," is all she says in reply.

I'm reminded of when she left class early that one time with me, and we ended up going to Australia. That was the first time I'd ever seen her skip, and it was only for like, 15 minutes. But here, she's willing to ditch an entire day...

"I can tell what you're thinking, Li," Kat interrupts my thoughts. "I know you're trying to figure out why I'm becoming more relaxed. And the answer is-"

She, too, is interrupted, this time by Mama coming up the stairs. She's wearing a long sleeve dress and denim jacket, and in her right hand she's carrying what looks like a mango smoothie. My skin goes cold as we lock eyes and she asks impassively, "Lila. Can I help you?"

I hesitate, hoping against hope she'll give in easily just like Kat did. Will, I pray in my head, if you're in good terms with God up there, please tell him to make this go smoothly.

Then, I lie again, "Ever since it first started, I've been entering the Hamilton lottery, and... I won."

Mama's russet eyes widen, but she keeps the rest of her display of emotions steady as Kat gives her the tickets. While she reads them, a few still, strung-out seconds pass as my heart continues to rattle like a snare drum.

Finally, she says, "These are for tomorrow."

A sudden cool breeze blows through, and I shiver as my long and dark and messy hair shifts against my tense skin. For a moment, I hope it's Mor's freezing aura, and he's come to save me from this situation, but to no prevail. This cold is no work of the Grim Reaper - it's the work of drafts in the windows and shitty insulation.

"I know," I answer to my mother. "It's last minute, and I'm grounded and all. But... I thought I might as well tell you about them."

She breathes in deep through her nose and closes her eyes as if she's beginning a long and languorous thought process. From here, I can smell her floral perfume and strange new car scent that comes from hours of working in a TV studio, and it only sets me on an anxious edge. If it was a year or so ago, this trip could've been with Will and Veronica and I, the golden trio of my childhood, and maybe I wouldn't be so stressed out.

"You wanted to go with Will and Veronica before, right?" Mama confirms after a moment.

My mouth goes dry. What the hell, is she psychic too?

"Right."

Her eyes open as she shakes her head and sighs. "Oh, Mija. Vas a ser la muerte de mí..." Mama purses her lips and hands the tickets back to me. "You're still grounded, but... I know how badly you wanted this. I suppose we can go, if you two are willing to miss school."

My heart gives a flutter of relief. I should've remembered how much she pities me; she'd be straight-up cruel to reject a dream like this. Especially when you bring my dead boyfriend into the picture.

The thing is - and I think we all know this by now - I don't want her pity. I want her respect and thoughtfulness, not a few throwaway "I'm so sorry"s. Kat and Mor are the only people who never give me that bullshit, and since the latter is nowhere to be seen, I glance at the former and smile gently. She smiles back, an expression I've only seen her give me a few times since we were kids, and I hope against hope that it'll never disappear.

  ✕✕✕ 

The next day, we leave early in the morning from the Montpelier Amtrak station. Mama, with all her years of seniority at the news station, was able to take off easily, though I'm still kind of surprised she did.

The train ride is longer than a car would be, but none of us can drive in the city, so it's the easiest choice. Mama sleeps for the first half, then reads for the second half, while Kat spends the entire time listening to music and playing FIFA on her phone. Meanwhile, I look out the window and watch as the New England hills roll by, dreaming of the days when the forests were swathed with green and gold instead of red and dying brown.

We're there by 6:00 pm, an hour and a half before the show. We eat dinner at the same place we always do whenever we're in New York, a Cuban restaurant near the theater district that I might think was taken straight out of Havana if I didn't know better.

I'm not hungry enough to get a full meal, so I nibble on fried plantains while I listen to my mother and sister talk about soccer. I wish I could enjoy the sweet, caramelized taste of the fruit and the way it tenderly melts in my mouth like ice cream, but it's hard when I still associate this sort of food with Abuela.

I know I'm not the only one, though. I can see it in Mama's eyes too as we eat - though she's not only in mourning for her mother, but also my Papa, too. Usually, when we eat Cuban food, she shares wistful memories of what he and his family were like, and how they bonded over their mutual love for science and the Caribbean. But tonight's different, more delicate...

Out of seemingly nowhere, I blurt, "I'm sorry for lashing out at you the other day. And for getting a nose ring without your permission."

Kat almost chokes on her rice, but Mama just frowns and sets down her fork. "I accept your apology, Lila. Thank you."

Her voice is stiff and overly formal. I'm sure we both know that the lashing out wasn't the issue - it was what was said. My accusations of her practically being a deadbeat mom and not knowing single thing about my sister and I... neither of us can bring ourselves to face the topic.

Perhaps she's waiting for me to apologize deeper, or perhaps she realizes I have a point, and she's too proud to admit it. Either way, she's still for a few more seconds before taking a sip from her water while Kat clears her throat awkwardly and ends up coughing.

I side-eye her, then turn back to my plantains, only to see that I ate all of them without realizing it. My posture slumps, and I let out a tired sigh. I knew this would be harder than just a few words, but I'm still disappointed that neither of us will back down. If she were Mor, we'd find a way to work it out, and if she were Will, this never would've happened in the first place.

For a moment, I imagine sitting here with my best friend instead. In my dreams, we're all grown up and visiting New York to catch a musical and take a break from the heat of wherever we live. I'm eating something more than just plantains, and his hazel eyes are smiling at me as he lifts his glass to drink-

"Lila, we just paid the check. It's time to go."

That's Mama's voice, not Will's. Suddenly, my mind's vision of my love has disappeared and I'm staring straight ahead at empty air. Kat, now standing, is looking at me like I've lost my mind. "Hel-lo," she says, dragging out the word, "Earth to Lila?"

Blinking, I stand immediately. "Sorry," I murmur. "I'm ready. Let's go."

I push past my family, unable to look them in the eyes and wishing I could figure out a way to stop zoning off in the middle of nothing. Maybe there is no way - maybe I'm stuck with just trudging on and dealing with it forever.

No, I remind myself, You don't have a forever, Lila. In a few weeks, everything will be okay again. It's almost over. For now, you just have to make it through Hamilton.

✕✕✕

I make it through Hamilton. But it's not without a few tears.

The first act, I'm a bit numb. It's the same story I know and loved, about a bunch of scrappy nobodies (and a French nobleman) rising up to brand America as the land of the free and home of the brave it claims to be. I watch with eyes practically glazed over, forcing a ghostly smile, focusing on the story instead of what it would be like if Will were sitting here beside me. The gold plating and plush red seats of Richard Rodgers Theater is scant compared to the Paris opera house I visited so long ago, but the musical draws me in until I almost forget where I am and why I'm there.

By intermission, a small glow has formed in Mama's eyes, making me think that perhaps this will put her in a better mood. But, like many stories, that beautiful beat the story flowed to goes to absolute shit in the second act, as the eponymous Alexander Hamilton deals with racist founding fathers (I'm looking at you, Thomas Jefferson) and stressful deadlines before cheating on his wife and practically sending his son to die. None of this is relatable, luckily, but it still makes my skin go cold.

Now, I can feel the pain beginning to prick at my skull again, knowing how much Will would've enjoyed this, how we would've mouthed along to every melody and cringed in sync whenever Hamilton did something stupid, which is often. How we would've exited the theater singing and laughing, how we would've stayed up all night exploring the lawless land of New York City and seeing the moon rise over the skyscrapers, how we would've fallen asleep sometime in the dim morning and slept in until noon, perfectly content in each other's presence. No nightmares, no visions, no flashbacks.

Usually, music will draw me out of any reverie I fall into, but as the final song - Who Lives, Who Dies, Who Tells Your Story - begins to cry into the night, it only makes my head go cloudier. I ignore the lyrics, even as wife Eliza sings about living long after her husband's death in order to help his legacy go on.

I realize that my emotions have become muddled. Once, I could take some sort of refuge in remembering the positive times with Will, but now I'm miserable no matter what. I mean, I was always miserable, but at least I was almost able to ignore it before. Now, I feel like I'm wasting time. That eagerness for it all to end, just like after Abuela died, comes back to me again, and even as I daydream about Will, one thought won't stop replaying through my mind: It's almost over.

As the final song ends and the cast comes out to take a bow, I am no longer thinking about how amazing it would be to be in their place or to see this with Will or any of my other dreams. I'm thinking about how many more things I have to get done, how many more people I have to make up with before I can just end this constant feeling of misery.

I rise with the rest of the audience to give a standing ovation. My hands hurt from clapping too much, but I don't notice.

Mama, Kat, and I wait for the crowd to disperse a bit before leaving our seats and going back to the theater lobby. Still, even with our efforts, the atrium is packed, and as people bump into me I have a sinking feeling that I may start to panic if I don't get out soon.

Over the noise, my sister says, "I have to go to the bathroom. You guys wait outside."

With that, she disappears in the direction of the restroom, where a line of at least 20 women are waiting patiently. Mama glances at me, but it's too quick for me to be able to see what she's thinking, because she quickly grabs my arm and whisks us outside to the wall next to the stage door. A few eager fans are waiting for the actors to come out and sign their playbills, but I can't think of anything but my problem at hand. I need to make up with Mama. I need to get this over with.

We're standing there for a few moments, the night air freezing despite my denim jacket, before I decide to divulge, "I don't know what you want me to say."

To my surprise, Mama just slumps her shoulders in response.

She turns towards me, so that I can finally get a good look at her face... and I can see now that her eyes are red and filled with tears, making her mascara run slightly. Oh, shit, I think to myself, along with a word that I should not repeat as many times as it goes through my head.

It's always weird to see your parents legitimately cry. Not just tear up in that way they do when they hear a song from their childhood or think about your future graduation or watch Titanic, but actually sob. Shaking diaphragm, trembling voice, and all.

"You don't have to say anything, Mija," she chokes out. "You were right."

"I... was?"

My mother nods, before gulping like a suspect about to confess their guilt. "I spend too much time at work on purpose, and I'm sorry. I just - I don't want us to struggle financially. And sometimes it's hard for me to come home and remember he's not there."

He. It's all about Papa, of course.

I wish I could have some conviction and argue with her, but I get it. Things are often challenging for me for the same reason. I have no room to talk, and besides, I hardly can. Her vulnerability is making me uncomfortable. I feel like I should comfort her, but I know better than anyone that petty comfort does nothing for a grieving heart.

Mama takes a breath, staring at me, before saying gently, "You remind me so much of him."

My own breath catches in my throat. I almost reply with an I do?, but my voice is nowhere to be found. Luckily, my mother continues without waiting for me to reply. "You have his nose," she ponders, "and his smile, and a few of his quirks, too. Especially considering what you ate for dinner. You know plantains were his favorite food?"

I squeak, "Seriously?"

"Oh, yeah. He used to just snack on them all the time, even uncooked." She compresses her lips into a tight, wistful smile, as if she's trying to hold back a scream of grief. "As I watched you eat them earlier, I couldn't help but see him - and Abuela, really, - in you. You're like this combination of both of them... passionate and loving, like your grandmother, and down-to-earth, yet self-destructive like your father."

"Do you think I'm self-destructive?"

"I think you can be. You lose your certainty when things get rough. You'll settle for anything you can get, even if it's harmful in the end."

My stomach churns in refusal to accept her opinion. She doesn't know me, I protest in my head. That's the whole issue.

Still, somewhere deep inside me, I know she's right. Whereas Will would hear both sides of any story, and Kat sticks to her guns like her life depends on it, I am and always have been a pushover. Sure, I've got lots of dramatic sarcasm to spare, but my actual life goals and dreams and desires were anything but dramatic.

I try to remember what Veronica told me the day we 'made up'... something or other about the way I perceive life, how I feel every emotion so deeply that even the smallest bit of happiness can sustain me for a lifetime, and I don't need anything more.

It was beneficial when the only emotion I really felt was happiness, aside from the spare spark of anger at Veronica. However, now, the strongest feeling is that misery I've had since the crash.

It's been festering for months deep within my heart, getting worse with every passing day, and I really would settle for anything to get me away from it.

But can you blame someone for wanting to have peace of mind?

"That being said, Lila," Mama says, interrupting my internal soliloquy, "You're right. I don't truly know you, and I have no idea what you're really going through, and I'm sorry you have to go it alone because of that. But I do know what it's like to deal with pain, and whether your pain is worse than mine or vice versa, all I can tell you is that it gets hard sometimes. And that's okay - that's life. Life is not just joy - it's pain, too, and to truly make things worth it you have to go through both. Dark times will only make the sunshine even more relieving, but that doesn't mean you have to resign yourself to a life without light."

"And what if there's no light left in sight?"

"Then, you just gotta keep pushing forward until you find it. Even if you tear up inside every time you see plantains."

She chuckles softly, sadly, to herself, but I don't share the laughter.

I realize that there's some lesson here, something I need to learn, a moral I need to take to heart. But it's flying straight over my head, and I'm not stopping it. All I feel is guilt for my mother's bereavement, guilt that my death may just make it worse, and guilt that I was the one who survived that fucking crash in the first place. I haven't felt this way for a while, but it's coming back full force now, and I find myself wondering what Will would be like in this situation.

He'd find a way to move on. He'd find a way to integrate my memory into his life without going full-on dead inside. Even if he had PTSD too, he'd push through it, and keep going until things got better.

I have no time to get better, and even if I did, I don't know if I'd be able to.

My mother was trying to give me advice and connect with me, but it only backfired. Before, I felt like shit, and now I simply feel sick. My fate is going to make me feel better, but make Mama feel worse. I want to die, but... I don't want her grief to grow. I don't want her to work even harder, to take it out on Kat and leave her broken-hearted as well.

But what can I do? I am going to die soon, and all my troubles will finally vanish, and there's no stopping that.

"I'll try to work less," Mama promises, but I can barely hear her. "We're gonna make this okay for both of us, Lila. It's going to be okay."

No, it's not.

At that moment, Kat comes outside, hopping down the steps to land beside us. "I had to go so badly," she groans, "but the line was too long, so I pretended I was going to throw up and they let me-"

She stops when she sees the glassy look in my eyes and tears in my mother's. Glancing between both of us, she raises her eyebrows. "I'm sorry, did I interrupt something?"

"No," I say, regaining my composure, or at least pretending to. Mama apologized, and that was all I needed. I didn't want to get philosophical. "And although that's kinda terrible that you lied to skip ahead in line, I'm proud of you. You're getting edgier and edgier by the minute."

Kat gives me a cock-eyed grin like we're children again, and even Mama's smile loses some of its sadness. Sniffling, she starts to say something, until a loud ruckus of hollering erupts behind us.

We all whirl, and find a few cast members have just come out the stage door. I recognize the guy who played John Laurens and the guy who played Thomas Jefferson, and behind them, someone who I know for a fact hardly ever stage doors - Lexi Lawson, the actress currently performing as Eliza. The fans, ranging from blue-haired preteens to stylish young adults to a few middle-aged theater-goers, go wild, begging the performers to take pictures and give them signatures.

Mama looks from the group of people to me. "You want to go meet them?"

Not really, I think. But aside from making up with my mother, my main goal in coming here (aside from checking another item off of my bucket list) was to find a story to tell the Drama Club when I got back. And Will, of course, when I see him eventually. I'm sure they'd all be much more awed if I not only saw the show, but met a few of the cast members too.

So I nod insensibly. "Sure, if that's okay with you."

"Of course it is," she replies. Pulling a ballpoint pen out of her purse, she hands it to me and nods at the playbill in my hand. "Go get a signature or something. I'm sure the kids in the play with you would be very jealous."

Smiling slightly at the fact that we had the same idea, I nod and go to push through the throng of people milling about on the sidewalk. Luckily, most of the crowd has dispersed since the show let out, leaving a clear path to the area outside the stage door.

Lexi and the other two actors, Anthony and James, are close by now, moving down the line of fans on either side of the walkway. The guys are over on the other side, having some sort of rap battle while a girl films with her phone, but Lexi - Eliza - comes up to me.

"Hi! H-" she stops mid-sentence, her pretty brown eyes widening. "Oh, my goodness. You look just like her."

Confusion creeps into my steely facade. "Like who?"

"Eliza!" she exclaims with a laugh. "With your hair pinned back like that and all that blue going on, you could practically be teenage her!"

I glance down at my outfit and realize I do kind of look like a modern Eliza - denim jacket, light blue dress, suede booties, dark hair done up similar. It's uncharacteristic, considering I usually dress like the mess I am, most often in black. But this was the nicest outfit I had, and I didn't want to look like a woodchuck coming to a Broadway musical.

"Oh. Uh, thank you." I chuckle a little bit as my cheeks go rosy, though I can't tell whether it's because it's cold or because a theater star just compared me to a newly iconic character. "It's funny, because I usually don't dress like this. I usually wear, like, all black."

Lexi's face falls, and she cocks her head. "Really? That's too bad. You look nice in blue! Anyway, do you want an autograph?"

"Oh!" I repeat. "Yes, yeah, please."

I hand her my pen and hold out my playbill. She asks for my name and I tell her, and soon she's given me back the writing utensil. From the glimpse I get, it looks like she's written more than just her name, but before I can read, I politely say, "Thank you!"

"Of course! Thanks for coming out!" With that, she continues on to the next fan, who squeals like a guinea pig when they make eye contact. People shift around me, trying to get closer, so I duck out of the way. Keeping my head down as I walk back to my family, I try to take in what the actress wrote.

Lila, it says in a swirly script, Keep wearing blue, and maybe you can take my place as Eliza one day! Love, Lexi Lawson.

There's no way a small, most likely disingenuous compliment would ever change my entire opinion on my situation, but Lexi's note makes my forced smile grow just a bit more real. I appreciate that she was thoughtful enough to take the time to write that, though I know even if I had a life ahead of me, I could never possibly make it into Hamilton.

I'm not Eliza. I'm not Alexander, either. I'm not even an ensemble member. I'm some girl who auditioned and almost had a chance, but who was rejected last minute and proceeded to cry for a month straight afterwards.

Great, Lila, I reprimand myself. You just made your smile disappear. You really are self-destructive.

Maybe so.

I reach Mama and Kat and show them the note. Kat makes a snarky comment about my choice of clothing, but I know she's just kidding. Mama gives me a warm smile, and it sets in that we've made up. We've fought it out and it turns out she really is just as much of a grieving mess as I am.

She promised me that she'd work less, that she'd try harder to make things okay. What she doesn't realize is that there's no time left for things to be okay. I am already too deep into my depression to go back now, and I've got a deadly fate ahead of me that will end it all just like that.

Drama Club will most likely love my stories of New York, hopefully propelling their old connotation of me to come sweeping back. They'll like me just enough to remember me when I'm gone, but not to be completely grieving. Because of that, I'm glad this was on my bucket list. Another goal down, another person made up with.

Yet, even as I take comfort in the fact that I'm getting closer to the end of all this, there's something else nagging at the back of my mind. Realizing how miserable my mother can get, my heart is now much more conflicted - yes, I want to escape this horrid world, but I'll be leaving behind at least a few mourners. I don't want to be responsible for other people's heartbreak.

Before, I didn't think anybody would be heartbroken. By now, I'm aware of the fact that more people care about me than I thought.

But it doesn't matter. I'm going to die soon, and whether I'm resigned to that fate or not, there's no turning away from the truth. It's almost the end of the list, almost Halloween, almost the crash's 5 month anniversary.

It's almost time for me to die.

✕✕✕✕✕

A/N: GUYS I AM SO SORRY THIS IS 2 WEEKS LATE! AND IT'S THE LONGEST CHAPTER, WHICH IMO IS NOT A GOOD THING

Seriously, I'm really sorry that it took me so long to publish this. I wish I had an excuse, and luckily I do! My quarter at school (half of a semester) ended a couple days ago, so a bunch of projects and last minute grades were due, which is what I've spent the past week or so working on. Also, I tried to write some more of my old PJO fanfic (Apollo, Summer, and the Camp For Greeks) and then when I came back to this I couldn't get back into Lila's voice. I was stuck writing like I do in the fanfic, which is bad, because that's more humorous and whimsical than sad and self-reflective. It was hard to switch back, but at the end of the day... I finally got this done. Thank god.

Anywho, I wasn't planning on inserting my 2016-era love for Hamilton in here, but Lila is a theater geek, and her favorite musical is In The Heights, so I figured she'd love Hamilton as well. This is kinda a filler chapter ngl but I needed to write it so Lila could be on good terms with her mom by the end! You also see now that Lila's beginning to experience some regret over her fate... will she actually try to stop it? Is it even possible to stop it?

Anyway, y'all ever seen Hamilton on broadway? I have, and it was spectacular. I got to meet Lexi Lawson too, and J. Quinton Johnson!! Overall, I love them and the musical in general very much, although, the fandom's a bit cringy... (no offense if any of you guys are in the Hamilton fandom)

Until next time, keep those positive vibes and stay awesome!

xoxo, Athena

✕✕✕✕✕