Unwritten Pages

“Hey Andrew,” Peter says. I look up and I see him approaching me. He's holding a basketball.

“Yeah?”

“Did you make up?”

I hesitate. “Kind of.” We haven't exactly said that we were together again. But after a kiss and that conversation? I'm pretty sure we're back together.

“Oh,” he says. He dribbles the ball once on the sidewalk. “Well...ah...”

“Spit it out,” I say.

“I miss Winter,” he says blandly. “A lot. Like...a lot.”

I think about her journal entry—where she says that she finds Peter cute.

“She thinks you're cute,” I say suddenly with no thought. Peter looks startled and almost drops his basketball.

“Excuse me?”

“Oh,” I say, thinking of an excuse. I don't want him to know that I have her journal. I need to finish reading it first. “She told me that once. She thinks you're cute. She wanted you to ask her out. But I guess you were a little too late on that and she went for the jerk.”

There's silence for a moment before Peter says: “oh.”

“Yeah. If she was here, I think she would dump that dickhead and go for you.”

Peter gives a short laugh. “I feel like I'm a girl. And that we're all girls. And we're talking about boys. And I want this guy to ask me out.” Before I can say anything, Peter continues. “I'm an idiot. I had my chance.”

I want to say: well don't give up yet. But I know all hope is gone. She's dead. We can't bring her back to life. It's over. There is no second chance after someone is dead. Peter might have had a second before last Thursday. But the date has already past. There's no going back to change things, as much as we want to.

“You... You'll see her one day,” I say, though I'm not sure of my words as I speak them.

Peter laughs again. “Assuming we even have souls and eternal life.”

I don't feel like saying anything, so I don't.

“Plus, I'm not sure if she even likes me anymore. Her thoughts are not mine. We're different,” Peter says simply, as if answering a Math question.

“But her thoughts may still be the same as they were,” I say, thinking of the journal lying in my room right now. I know I'm going to read more of it. It may contain the reason for her suicide.

“Her thoughts, my thoughts,” Peter mutters.

“Lies and false truths,” I offer randomly.

“Lies and false truths,” Peter repeats. “The world is full of them.”

“But her thoughts...” I say. “She may still think you're an available choice.”

“Yeah,” Peter mutters, almost inaudible. “Assuming we have souls.”