I write everything in the notebook.

  Not diary stuff. Not dear diary, today at school. More like thoughts I can’t say out loud because there’s nobody to say them to. Questions that don’t have answers. Things that happened that I don’t know what to do with.

  Why did she go.

  Does she think about me.

  If I found her would she want me to.

  I write them and I don’t answer them because I don’t have the answers. But at least they’re out of my head and on the page and I can close the notebook and put it back under the mattress and go to sleep.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Papa is fine. He’s here. He pays for things. He shows up to school events and sits in the plastic chairs and claps. He asks about my grades. When the grades are good he says good. When they’re not he says we need to do better.

  We. Like he’s been doing any of it.

  I don’t say that out loud.

  I look up Mama once on the school computer during free period. I type her name into the search bar and then I just sit there looking at it. I don’t hit enter. What if there’s nothing. What if there’s something and I’m not ready for it. What if she’s fine and happy and not thinking about me at all.

  I close the tab.

  I open my homework instead.

  At home that night I write in the notebook: I almost searched for her today. I didn’t. I don’t know if that makes me a coward or just not ready.

  I think about it.

  Not ready, I write. I’m not ready.

  I close the notebook.

  But maybe soon.