Day 1:

I am sitting in an office. I don't know where. I don't know why. Actually I do, but I'm trying not to think about it. Maybe then it can just be a dream, a nightmare.
A woman walks in. I don't know who she is. But I do. I just don't want to think about it right now.
"Emma, I'm so glad to see you." The lady is smiling one of those fake smiles, like she really doesn’t want to be here. I don’t want to be here. I want to go home and lie on my bed and wait for something, anything, to happen.
The lady sticks out her hand and it takes me a while to realize that she wants me to shake it, but by then it’s too late. “Emma, since this is our first session, I think it’s best if we get to know each other a little better so trust won’t be an issue.”
Silence.
“Can you tell me about your friendship with Lydia Meyers?”

Day 2:

My phone rings for the first time in months. It’s Michael. He wants to know if we can go see a movie. I say yes because I really have nothing else to do. “I’ll pick you up at three,” he says and then hangs up.
I haven’t seen Michael face to face since Lydia’s funeral. We were both asked to say some words for her because I was one of her closest friends and he was her boyfriend.
Michael drives by my house and honks his horn three times. Once I’m inside the car, we don’t really talk much. “I’ve got the tickets for The Red Balloon,” he says. “She always said she wanted to go see it with me.”
It’s pretty good, and I can see why Michael would have wanted to bring Lydia; it’s about the art of photography and the beauty in everyday things. After it finishes,  Michael drops me off back at my house and says I can call him anytime.

Day 3:

I am back in the office. The therapist is sitting across from me, jeweled glasses perched on her beak of a nose. She’s holding a stack of papers, maybe an inch thick. I don’t want to know what’s written on them.
Again, she speaks first. “It says here”—she scans the first page—“that you and Lydia were friends since kindergarten. You two were neighbors but didn’t go to the same school, if I am correct?”
If she reads it off of the paper, why is she asking me?
“She was diagnosed with leukemia when you two were both in seventh grade?”
Why does she say everything like it’s a question? Why does she have to remind me?
“Do you remember how you felt when she told you...?”
Shut up. Just shut up. It’s too late now.

Day 4:

I get a text from Alicia saying that she is having a party and would like me to go. I want to say no, but then Michael texts me saying that he’s going and would I please come too. I say okay to both messages; if Michael can deal with it, I should be able to.
The party starts at five o’clock sharp and goes until somewhere after eleven thirty. Michael offers to pick me up again, and I say okay because it will make my mom happy.
Michael and I arrive a few minutes late. Alicia answers the door, and when she sees us together squeals, “Ooh, are you two going out?”
Michael and I both say no, but Alicia doesn’t seem to get it. I want to scream that the only reason I’m with Michael is because he seems to be the only person who actually understands me.
Michael and I leave at ten because both of us seem to have had enough. “I know how you feel, Emma,” he says quietly before driving off. “I miss her too.”

Day 5:

I tell my mom I’m going out for a walk. The wind is cool and sharp, but I find it strangely soothing in the way that it cuts at my cheeks and ears and nose. It begins to rain, fat drops of water that streak like comets, drenching me in moments. I don’t mind.
I walk, soaking wet and without really thinking, to a strip mall, the artificial lighting bright and unsettling in the colorless world around me. The parking lot holds a scattering of cars which leave, one by one.
Finally the lot is empty and all the store lights are extinguished. I lie down in the middle of the plain of concrete, listening to the whirr of tires, splattering of rain, my heart banging against my ribcage.
I think I start to cry, but it’s hard to tell because of the rain sliding down my cheeks. I don’t know why I’m so upset; maybe it’s because my mom is acting so nice all the time, or Michael actually understands me, or because Lydia isn’t here to rave about photography or her latest dance performance or how much homework she has to do.
I call Michael.
“Emma, are you okay?” is the first thing he says.
“Why did she leave me? Why did she leave you?” I can’t say it. I can’t say the word. Rain smears my tears, clouding my vision.
“I’m coming over to your house,”
“I’m not at home,” I’m sobbing now.
“Where are you? I’ll come get you,”
Michael’s car screeches to a halt next to me and he gets out, pulling me up from the ground. He doesn’t say anything, just pulls me into an embrace. He starts to cry along with me, and we rock back and forth silently, our tears mixing together, with the rain streaming down around us.
Finally Michael carries me into his car and wraps a blanket around me. My tears have dried out, and so have his. He drives me back to my house. I turn to him. “Thank you,” I say, quietly.
“For what?”
“Understanding me.”