That afternoon he knocked on my door. He held my note in his hand. “Hey. I never came by like I said.”
“No, you didn’t.”
He raised the piece of paper and tilted his head slightly to one side; he said nothing more. Nor did I. My blood was pounding so loudly in my head that its sensation was my only thought.
He stepped into the room, and the door fell shut behind him, and it was only us. He lifted both hands to either side of my face and gently placed a palm on each of my cheeks. Then he pressed his lips to mine.
Later, when he had left and I was alone again, I saw that the note had dropped to the floor. The piece of paper lay forgotten at the edge of Heather’s crumpled mess. From where I stood I still couldn’t read my words, but I recognized the handwriting penned there. It looked exactly like the paragraphs scrawled in page after page after page of my journals.