The bus rumbled beneath me like a restless animal, the engine coughing every few blocks as Seaside came into view. I leaned against the cold glass, Dean’s hoodie that I never had the chance to return pulled over my head, fingers tightening around the pen in my hand hovering over the notebook atop my thrift-store duffel. Along with Dean’s well-used acoustic guitar, it was everything I owned. A pair of worn jeans, two other notebooks half-filled with lyrics I was too afraid to share, the dying phone with the only pictures of Dean I had, my beat-up MP3 player loaded with songs I’d played on loop for years, and the treasure I only found tonight. 

I looked down at the pages filled with my scrawl. I'd been writing in this notebook each night since Dean left. Tonight's contents: 

Hey Dean, 

It’s 11:11pm as I write this. I thought you'd appreciate that. It's been 109 days. It hasn't gotten any easier. I'm not sure if I'm ever going to stop missing you. I know I'm not supposed to say that, but you never held that against me. 

I finally went back to the lake tonight. I couldn't get myself to go there before that. But I had to say goodbye. It was our place. It hurt like hell. 

I sat under the tree by the dock, like we used to. I almost thought I could hear you, but it was just the rain. I looked down, and I really believe it could have been you. I keep looking for pieces of you that I can hold onto, and in the pile of leaves, I found your hackysack. It was muddy, but I cleaned it up and it's in my pocket now. Thank you for that. 

I'm keeping my promise. I'm on the bus to the city right now. I hate that you're not on the bus with me. I'm not sure what's worse. Before I met you, I was alone, but it was all I knew. After you, I know what I'm missing, and it's like someone cut off my arm. But I want to feel it, it helps me remember.

I saved $800 this summer. I took all the shifts I could. I hope you're proud of me. I hope you're happy and safe where you are. I hope I'll see you there.

I wiped the dampness from my cheeks, looked up and saw bright lights through the window. The city skyline didn’t look like redemption. It looked like noise, and money, and people who already knew who they were. It pulled me like a whirlpool into its vortex. There had to be pieces of Dean there that I could find.

I stared back at my own reflection in the scratched-up window. A blur of messy hair, tired eyes, and something behind them that hadn’t given up yet. As the bus slowed for a red light, two figures appeared in the corner of my eye, their laughter a fleeting wisp through the glass, a streak of bright color against the gray. A girl with a dancer’s grace, a guy with a bass case over his shoulder. And then the bus lurched forward, and they were gone, just as my reflection returned. 

I whispered to myself, “Don’t disappear.” I made a promise.