I hadn't been prepared for the pain. 

After Dad died, I had forgotten what it meant, to care about people. To let them have the power to hurt you. I'd let Bea in, I'd given her the keys to my heart, and she'd tossed them carelessly over her shoulder and walked away.

I screwed my eyes shut. Maybe I'd misunderstood. Maybe I'd let myself feel so deeply but to Bea, it had always been a shallow dalliance?

Somehow a week passed, and the eve of the Snowball Dance has arrived.

Each day feels like a cold, flat copy of the one before it. I have an image of colorless ice cubes in endless white trays and blinked it away.

A fly buzzes lazy figures of eight. After ten pages I feel Nietzsche is reading me, not I him, and I toss the bearded man aside. Books don't offer real escape but they can try and stop the mind from scratching itself raw.

"A half-read book is a half-finished love affair." I can almost hear her voice inside my head.

It storms me with a crowd of emotions, memories and mental movie clips and I turn to my sketches.

Every face I try to draw comes out as her. Once her face was burned into my idiotic eyes, I saw her everywhere, in everyone.

In this particular drawing, she is wearing a sun hat, which hides the earlets she hates so much, and makes her look carefree and ethereal. I realize I'm staring at my own creation, wanting to reach out and touch one of her hair strands. Essencebea is too shy to show her pretty head. The face we only wear when we feel safe. She seems to have a personality for every life occasion. Untamed, uncivilized and uncut, she was at her most natural. She has big eyes and wields them with perfection. There is no girl similar to her.

I try to tease figures of Bea out of the letters. That crooked "a," that curly "d," the way her handwriting leans to the right —that was Bea. She is every letter in this book and every smudge on my glasses, hidden among the creases on my shirt.

But what if all this time, for the past month, she was merely tolerating me? Just letting me tag along?

Yet, then I remember the way our legs intertwined when we cuddled in the tent. How we rubbed our noses together to combat the cold, and how her eyelashes gave my cheek a butterfly kiss. For the briefest moment, she looked like a little girl. I felt like a little boy.

"I don't matter, Ross," she says. "My life amounts to no more than one drop in a limitless ocean."

"Yet what is any ocean but a multitude of drops?"

"The game is more important than the player, Ross. Remember that. Players come and go, but the game of life remains."

To me, every drop matters. Humanity is a nevending ocean and each life that began and ended plays a part in the history of our time. But her droplet plays a part in my heart.

"We are like fireworks. We are meant to fly up, and shine and spark. And be the best version of ourselves," says Bea.

But my best version of myself was BeaRoss, just like Z said. My best version of myself was by her side.

I love books and stories, but what I would love more than reading about other people's stories is creating our own. I am not sure I can be in a world where Beatrice Laurent and me do not have a story to tell.

I can never sit with her in Lu's kitchen again as Z and Lu cook dinner. I can never walk into her mansion library again. I can never run my fingers along the aged spines of hundreds of books. I can never look up the expanse of stairs to the second floor and see Bea at the top of them again. I can never read that book on shapeshifting while lounging on a sofa, or read Gormenghast to her, or have her read to me in that distinctly silky voice.

I can never, never, never again.

One moment it was all there, at the tip of my fingertips. Part of my life, in a way nothing has ever been before, and the next—gone.

All of it, gone.

I hug my pillow to my chest and try to keep the well of sadness inside me, but I can't. This doesn't hurt as much as losing Dad. Nothing will ever hurt that much, but it hurts all the same. Tears spill down my cheeks, and I bury my head into my pillow.

You knew it wouldn't last, I think. It should've never happened to begin with.

"Crush" is too weak a word to describe how I feel.

It doesn't do her justice, but maybe it works for me. I am the one who is crushed. I'm crushed that we have come to regard each other as strangers because of my idea. I'm crushed when yet another day ends, and I haven't said anything to her, and she hasn't said anything to me.

I'm crushed, concluding this month in memories of how much she loved supermarketing or eating whipped cream straight from the tub at 10 a.m. Or how she played with her curls when she was nervous, or how she was worried that her teeth looked bad. (They never did.)

Bea's ambitious, clever, interesting, and beautiful. I put "beautiful" last because for some reason, I have a feeling she'd roll her eyes if I wrote it first. But she is. She's beautiful and adorable and so fucking charming.

And she has this energy that radiates off her, a shimmering optimism I wish I could borrow for myself sometimes.

Like light Bea is, wave and particle at the same time. Irreconcilable opposites, yet she wouldn't be light if she were just one of them. Couldn't make the world bright and shiny.

I'd fallen in love with a girl who talked with touch.

"I'm so sorry you're going through this, Ross. But it looks like she made her decision. The best way to get over her is to force yourself to stop having feelings for her," Z says, glancing at me.

I roll my eyes at him and tuck into Lu's chicken.

"Of course. Because it is just that easy."

"Maybe it's not easy, dude, but it's that simple," Z says calmly, wiping his mouth with the sleeve.

"Seriously? You can't just force yourself to stop having feelings for someone."

"The heart must be ruled by the head. I think it's just like, a matter of... willpower. You know what I'm saying?"

"I understand you, Ross," says Lu. "The heart doesn't work like that. It's no one's servant. And sometimes... sometimes the person you love, as bad an idea as she might be, is the only one in the world who really, truly sees you. And you are the only one who really, truly sees her."

I bring my black hoodie to my nose, the one I wore to Saratoga Lake, breathing in deeply. It still carries the faint scent of Bea, earthy lemon. A delicate blend of her perfume and warmth. Blend of this realm and the one below.

My heart skips a beat as memories flood my mind, a bittersweet reminder of the time of us. In this simple act, I find solace and longing, yearning for the day we might meet again. The scent lingers, wrapping around me like a comforting embrace, keeping our connection alive despite the distance. With each inhale, I hold onto hope, knowing that we transcend time and space.

The scent takes me back in an instant. I get to bask in the sunshine of her smile. All my tears, all my neurotic foibles are fading away. I forget about the way my brother treats me. His mocking glares. Dad's death.

Being here with her in my mindspace is so worth it.

Bea and I are always right here, right now.

As I recline in my desk chair in my bedroom, hands laced behind my head, all I can think about is her. Talking to her. Hearing her voice. Now more than ever. I can feel her heart beating as clearly as mine and I know this separation is an illusion. It must be.

The bedroom door swings open. Gus bursts inside, hands on his hips, like he owns the world. 

"You're not dressed yet?" He spits the words out at me. His Snowball Dance suit is an elegant black ensemble that exudes a dangerous aura.

I shrug at his question, cowering in the corner. Maybe there is a grain of truth in the dynamics between the bully and the bullied: the perception of the bullied never changes. My heart quickens its pace at that familiar specter of intimidation, and dread creeps up my spine. 

If I do what I always did: clam up, ignore Gus and do what he wants, then he will leave.

Then, I'll be safe.

It's how we always were.

Still, then I would be back to behaving like the little sad yes guy that I was before.

But Beatrice Laurent was never a little sad yes girl.

And Gus is the one who's mainly at fault for her departure.

"Mom wants to see you," Gus adds gruffly.

"What's going on?" I keep my tone of voice cold and formal.

"Beats me. But she's on a warpath."

"Should I be worried?"

"Probably. Better go find out before she explodes. Might have something to do with you being late. Like always."

"Great, just what I needed," I mutter.

Gus smirks and smacks me on the head. "Good luck, little bro. And if I were you, I'd put a suit on. If Mom sees you're still in pyjamas she'll flip."

"I might not go." I swallow.

"What's that?" He stops in his tracks, on his way out.

"I said," I repeat, louder this time. "Maybe I'm not gonna go at all."

"Aww, is this because of your hairy little friend? Where's she hiding these days?"

Of course it is. I clench my fists. It's about this beautiful soul. My perfect match: a child of spirit just like me, a fellow traveler in this mystical labyrinth of life. But I don't expect Gus to understand.

"Don't call her that. Do you have any idea how much trouble you got her in?"

"I mean, it's not my fault she's a beast. I did my civic duty by reporting her. Got some money in the process." He pats his pocket. "Maybe if Beatrice Laurent had offered some first, I would not have made that call."

"I care about her! And about my friends. Not just about god damned money like you!" I yell at Gus, and he is so taken aback that his mouth drops open. "Don't you understand how afraid Bea was? Z-man got hurt, too. And now she... She's gone."

Gus sits on the edge of my bed and steals a glance at my face. "How is Z'?"

"Better." Not thanks to you.

"And whadda you mean, gone?"

"Gone-gone. She was beside herself that someone could have gotten hurt because of her and she..."

"So she just up and left?"

"What else could she have done? She was being hunted." I cast an accusatory glance at him. It feels so weird to sit here with Gus, of all people, talking about the person who matters to me the most in the whole world.

"But I heard on the news that she escaped. Couldn't she just return to her human form? I got my money on the reported sighting so..."

"It's not as easy as you think. She can't control her transformation well."

"How did she even get like that?"

"It's a long story. And not the one I want to tell you of all people."

"Hey, I was scared out of my wits when she attacked me. Took me days to wrap my head around something like that. Even doubted my own sanity."

"Good." It feels awesome to be snappish at Gus. I'm glad he was scared just like I was, of him, years after Dad's death.

"Look, I only reported her for the money. I thought for sure she'll know how to escape from them. And when I saw it on the news... what happened to Z. Well, I thought that sucked." He scratches his nape with a hand move that isn't unlike my own.

"Money isn't more important than a person, Gus. It can't be. But I don't expect you to understand that because you... You don't care about anyone like I care about her."

"I care about our family." Gus' voice trembles, and he turns almost sheepish. "You know, I don't really talk about it with anyone but I get... embarrassed sometimes. About money. How I can never make enough of it."

"We get by, don't we?" I frown.

"That's just it, Ross, we barely get by. With my part-time job and mom's, we can put some food on the table but not much more. And see, this is exactly why I don't want to talk about this."

"Why?"

"That look in your eyes. I don't wanna evoke these reactions. This... Sympathy. I don't want anyone to feel sorry for me. For us."

"I—I don't," I say quickly, though he's a hundred percent right. I try to make my face look less sympathetic. "I just didn't know you already..."

"I do a good job disguising it. The leftover suits and school uniforms help. These past four weeks I began working as a grocery shop assistant, to save up some more money. It's all about projecting an image. I feel like I've spent all of high school maintaining this image, and I am still doing it, because I don't want people's pity. When I get out of here, I just want to start fresh. I don't want to be Gus Thorne, the pathetic one, or Gus Thorne, the one whose dad died, or Gus Thorne, the guy who never has enough money. I want to see who I am without all of that baggage attached to me. I really want to get that scholarship and... Make a name for myself."

I sink my foot into a torn, tattered mess of the eyesore of my bedroom rug. This thing is begging for retirement. "I want you to have all of that," I say, meaning it. "Though if you don't want my sympathy, I'm not quite sure what else to say."

"Just... be normal. Don't change how you act because you know this about me. Don't let up on me. I'd hope that you of all people wouldn't treat me differently."

"Okay. I won't. I still find you quite insufferable at times."

Though I'm stuck on something else he said: Don't let up on me. 

"Look. The way you are, so... you."

"Is that bad?"

We look each other in the eyes.

"It's not, but it reminds me of the truth. Real truth. Not this fake image I told you I'm building up. This... mask. You remind me I am pathetic. That there will never be enough money. You remind me of... Dad."

What?

"Really? In what way?"

"In every way. In the way you handle things, the way you carry yourself. Your likes, your clothes. It's like he's still here."

"I miss him too, Gus. It's so tough not having him around."

"Yeah, sure. But sometimes I can't help but feel angry at him."

Of all the things Gus could say this is the most surprising one. "Angry? Why?"

"Because he died, nerd. He abandoned us with all this burden, Ross. This fucking responsibility. This void he left behind."

"I understand. It's a lot to take in."

"Sometimes, seeing you here, it reminds me of him and I want to..." He swallows. "I want to punish him... through you."

All the puzzle pieces click into place. And now I know. I feel so sorry for Gus, seeing his aggression. Realizing there is so much pent-up sadness and dissatisfaction behind it.

It's clear to me now he hasn't come to terms with dad's death. In this moment, I realize, I'm the bigger man: I'm actually more mature than my older brother.

"We're in this together, Gus." I pat his hand awkwardly. "Hey, remember how we used to stay up till two a.m. with Mom and Dad solving those 3000-pieces Ravensburger puzzles?"

"Those were the days," says Gus, swallowing hard.

"Just like we figured those out, we'll figure out where we go from here, too. Dad would've wanted us to. Let's make him proud."

Gus is staring at me like he's never seen me before in his life. I'm not entirely sure if this is a good thing or a bad thing, when a timid knock on the door interrupts us.

Mom comes inside, and I can't help but notice she's so thin, worn and white as the wooden posts that hold up the porch outside our tiny home.

A knowing look passes between Gus and me. Another kind of look we haven't exchanged in years.

"I'm gonna go put on some cologne," he says, and leaves us alone.

Mom takes his place on the bed beside me. "Ross, honey. Listen. There is always going to be something sad about bygone loves. In the times long ago. In a different life. There will be images, moments, small things. Profound fragments of a life wonderfully lived."

I flash a sad smile. Huh. Guess that's where I get my philosophical streak.

"I've loved one man with all my heart, all my soul and all my flesh, and I know I shall not love another. Sometimes, you just one hundred percent click with someone, and it can happen at any point of your lifetime. But that shouldn't stop you from grabbing a moment to smile, from time to time." Mom looks at me with tenderness and understanding.

I am grateful for her silent support. When I nod at her, she stands up, runs her fingers through my hair and leaves.

The Snowball Dance rental suit beckons me. I caress the fabric with my fingers and recall seeing Bea's face for what could have been the last time.

We looked at each other in complete silence, tears welling in our eyes. Nothing was as eloquent as absence of words.

I knew we might never meet again, and maybe she knew that I knew.

But I don't like the word "never." Never, it's an awfully long time. And I refuse to believe it.

Because her soul swims in my eyes. Because I dream of that one moment where I hum her a tune so – so – so softly, her ear is pressed to my heart, and we waltz at the dance like string puppets.

I have no business thinking of Beatrice Laurent anymore, not like this. Yet here she is, in the soundproof chambers of my heart.

I sigh as I stare at wreck-Ross in the mirror.

Then I button up my dark blue suit, uplift my collar the way she used to do, and head for the front door. 

A/N: Theme song: Yann Tiersen "Monochrome (feat. Gruff Rhys)