I pick up the pen in my left hand, but it is trembling, out of control. I pull a sheet of paper from my notebook, smooth it out, and begin.

Dear Brianna,

I wonder if you remember me. You helped me in ways I cannot even describe; you showed me the way out of all this twisted nonsense. Do you remember? Do you remember the girl you left behind?

I remember you, every last detail. I remember your brown hair; I remember that gold bracelet that you always kept around your wrist. I remember the way you would hold me and let me cry, when I thought that nothing could ever be right again.

So why did you leave without saying so much as a good-bye? Not a “good luck, Annie” not a “stay out of trouble”? Did that week really mean so little to you?

I just—

Here I stop, crumpling the paper. I can’t keep writing this. If she wants to forget all that, then, I suppose I’ll let her. It’s been eight weeks. And time heals all wounds…

I get out my Spanish dictionary and begin to conjugate irregular verbs.