I don’t go back for three weeks.

  Classes. Meals. My roommate’s questions answered with the easy half-truths I’ve had since I was nine. I’m fine. Just tired. Long week.

  At night I replay it.

  The moment she looked at me and didn’t know me. The moment after, when she did. The way oh sounded in her mouth. Not cold. Not warm. Just. Managed. Like she had a procedure for this and she ran it.

  Maybe she always knew this might happen. Maybe she prepared for it.

  I think about the man with his hand on her shoulder. The easy way he stood there. The way she looked like someone who had put something very heavy down a long time ago and learned to walk straight.

  This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

  I write in my notebook: She looked okay. She looked actually okay. Light. Like someone who figured out how to be happy.

  I underline happy.

  Then I write: She didn’t know my face.

  Then: I know why. I know it makes sense. She left when I was five. Faces change. It’s been fourteen years. I know.

  Then: It still felt like something I need to find a word for.

  I sit with that for a while. I can’t find the word. I close the notebook.

  I call Papa on Sunday. He asks about my grades. I tell him. He says good. Seven minutes. I count them.

  After I hang up I think about two parents. One who got out and is happy and looked at me like oh. One who is home alone with the TV on saying good to a dead phone line.

  I should be angrier at her. I’ve been trying to work out why I’m not.

  Because she was drowning, I write that night. And she swam. I can’t be angry at someone for swimming.

  I look at the note on the wall.

  Second time, I think. I’ll go back. I’ll knock on an actual door. I’ll do it right.

  I’ll do it right.