By The Time You Read This

i. beginnings

What could happen in a day for it to be classified as "ordinary"? Probably nothing. Nothing happened. That's what makes it regular. Nothing special. The sun rose and the sun set. The Earth went about its orbit, and I spent five hours in a friend's basement trying to sound like Blink-182. The lines that had settled on my calloused fingers were slowly fading away, but I could still feel their marks.

My mother had obviously been doing the laundry; the curtains meant to cover the window to my barely-there-room-porch were out of sight. Without them, the amount of light coming in felt unnatural. It made the room feel wider. The first thing you'd notice when you looked out was that big tree between our lawn and the neighbor's, and their roof jutting just over the imaginary line separating our lawns.

I stood there for a while, absent-mindedly rubbing circles on my right palm. I was just about to go out and ask my mom if I could have my curtains back when I finally caught sight of it. A box. It was sitting up against a far corner of the porch, almost completely hidden from view because of the shadows slowly starting to grow around it.

Confused, I went out and a sudden coldness started to grow from my fingertips as I neared the object. It was an old shoebox. Converse. You could tell it had some years on it by the way how the colors were faded. I had a feeling; this feeling in my gut as to who had left it there and I hoped I was right, but at the same time, I hoped I was wrong. I felt a sudden trepidation as I stood over the thing, like if I touched it something terrible would pop the lid open and bite me.

I crouched and stared at it for a moment, before finally extending out my hand to lift up the lid.

CONNOR

I knew that messy scrawl a mile away.

For the person who knew me best;

And the last to turn clueless.

I have drowned,

Or am I home?

Am I saved,

Or was I never?

I'm sorry.

- A.D.

It was too late when I got it – the box. Or was it all carefully planned? It probably was. The moment my eyes shifted from my loopy written name to the pile of papers inside the box, I knew something was... out of place.

I hadn't talked to Andrea for over a year. At least properly, that is.

I hadn't even gotten around to picking up at least one of the pieces of paper inside the box when my mom knocked on my door and popped her head in, asking for help on something. I said I'd be down in a minute, and hid the box under my bed.

Thirty minutes later, I was having dinner with my mom and trying to keep my mind off of the box. It was a weekday and during nights like that, my dad usually came home late. So when he suddenly came through the front door hours too early and with his face looking as pale as a sheet, let's just say everyone was caught off guard.

"They've found her," he said, his voice slightly shaky. He was still wearing his hospital coat. It wasn't even the slightest bit hot, but there was a fine line of sweat on his forehead. He didn't need to say anything for me to know who he meant by "her". The same cold feeling I got when I saw the box outside my porch came rushing back, only this time it didn't just stay on my fingers. It seemed to slowly fill up my whole body.

I could tell my mother knew who he meant by "her" too, but couldn't help but ask anyway. She couldn't make sense out of it, I suppose. I didn't too. My father started to explain everything, how the police had finally found her and brought her to the hospital but it was too late. He said this all in his "doctor voice", the one he used when he had to tell someone they had cancer or that they were dying.