“Uh, Mr. Illia, you're acting really weird. Like we normally like how weird you are, but right now you're just off.”  A girl calls out as I read them a poem. I’ve had to restart it five times cause I keep spacing out. “Ya, we really match your odd little vibe and all, but your energy is kind of making me sad,” another girl adds with a pout. I respond with a self-deprecating chuckle. I love my job, I love my job, I love my job. When I finish my internal mantra, I smile, “Thank you for your kind words, Lilith, but I-” I’m cut off by a young man in the back, “Come on, guys, give him a break, he’s obviously hungover. We should be happy he actually had some fun for once.”  The students give a unanimous chuckle in agreement. “Alright, what the hell happened to raising your hand?” I huff out, only granting another round of laughter from my students. But with their teenage wisdom, I have to give them credit; they are right. I can barely keep upright. “Fine, read the poems and write a one-page reflection piece on them before the end of class. They will be graded.”  I’ll spend the rest of class drawing and get a sub for the day. I can afford to take one sick day.

“Wow! You're really good, Ethan!” I’m startled once again. I’ve spent the last hour zoned out, drawing. I’m not even sure I’ve actually registered what it is I’m drawing. 

“Hey, don’t call me by my first name. It’s Mr. Illia.” I huff as I lay down my pencil and glare up at the girl. “But you're not even that much older than me,” She complains like she has any authority in this argument. “Don’t let me hear it again,” I simply add before she shrugs and grabs my drawing from my desk. “But seriously, Mr. Illia, this is so good! He’s so handsome! I didn’t know you knew anyone like this. The details are so refined, you must be really close to him!” Her voice is high-pitched and squeaky. It’s not helping my headache. I’m not even sure what she’s talking about. I did draw a face, but it was just a random drawing of no one in particular. The only friends I have are the female teachers who like to drag me to bars after work to gush about their husbands or try to set me up. “Thank you, Ellie. Drawing is a hobby of mine; I just drew random features.”  I try to explain, but the sound of the bell drowns out my words, and she hands me both her essay and my sketchbook back.

After gathering all the essays and arranging them neatly in a folder for later review, I pack my bags to go home and most likely pass out for the day. But Ellie’s words make me pause, and I pull my sketchbook back out of my bag. I flip through the pages of random doodles before I gasp and drop it. I stumble back into my chair, staring at the face a few feet away from me on the floor. “W-Will?” I call out, not sure how I know that name or this face. But I do, I know him so well that the thought of not remembering anything about him is enough to make a tear fall down my cheek. My head is pounding to an almost unbearable degree now. I scramble to grab the book and pull it into my lap. Hesitantly, I run my fingers over the page, and memories hit me like a truck. I grab my trash can and empty my stomach into it. I’m suddenly all too aware that this shouldn’t be happening. This reality ended four years ago. All of these kids are dead. I watched Ellie die in my arms. This isn’t real.