As I stand, reading the license plate that spells his name and hangs from his bedroom door, I realize that coming here was a terrible idea. I run my fingers over the letters and say his name for the first time in weeks and it sounds foreign. It’s a word said too often and has lost it’s meaning. His family is waiting for me down stairs. I reach for the knob and turn it carefully. I open the door wide and step inside.

My ears are ringing and there is a bad taste in my mouth. It looks exactly as it had two weeks ago. It’s like he never left. His dirty socks and shirts lay in a pile in the corner near his closet and his guitar sits on his unmade bed. The corner of the round, shaggy carpet is overturned and his car keys lay out on his desk. I get a chill and I pull down the sleeves of my favorite black sweater and hold myself as I walk around the room. I sit on the edge of his bed and stare out the small rectangular window, the only one in his room.

Why would he do this to me?

A small brown bird perches on a branch outside and sings a sweet tune. Its carefree song mocks me. That’s when I notice the picture taped crudely onto the wall. It’s Trevor and I smiling wide at someone/thing not on camera. Its been torn in two, right down the middle and taped back together. The water spigot behind my eyes is turned on full blast and tears stream down my face and the scars on my wrists itch.

Trevor is gone. He isn’t coming back.