My heart skipped a beat when I noticed the unstable stack of boxes beginning to tip, and a pained whine left my lips as it crashed to the floor, spilling its contents across the dusty room. I loved moving. Tape gun in hand, I begrudgingly made my way through the mess and began to repack the boxes, making sure to close them completely before they could fall again.

I shut my eyes, just for a second I swear, and sat back, letting out a breath. Something snapped beneath me. "Such fun," I mumbled. "So. Much. Fun."

I popped up and crawled on hands and knees to sort through the piles, ignoring whatever I had just broken. Luckily the glassware was already packed up and waiting for me at my new place, so most of what had spilled was undamaged. What was left consisted almost entirely of books, journals, old sketchbooks, old textbooks, softball awards, and... My hand hovered over my high school yearbooks. A small smile found its way onto my face as a wave of nostalgia hit me. "High school... When everything mattered..."

Tentatively, I opened the cover of my senior year yearbook to find multiple pages covered with various signatures and long notes wishing me a happy summer and reminiscing about our time together.

"Let's keep in touch," one read. "I'll miss you," said another. I couldn't honestly remember who the signatures were from, but I guess we had been friends or something. More than likely they had signed it randomly when Sabrina stole my yearbook for a day. She liked to make it seem like I knew people. I didn't.

I shook my head, smiling at the page long entries from my best friends.

My fingers traced the familiar indent of pen before I could catch myself. I followed the text to the end to find the author, but I already knew who wrote it; no one else would be such a cheese ball. Even so, it was hard for me to stop my breath from catching when I read her name. Halley Pierce.

"Damn," I whispered. "The crush that never died." I couldn't bring myself to close the book just yet, so I hid my gaze behind my hands. I still had her song on my playlist, though it probably wasn't her song anymore. I wouldn't know; I hadn't seen her since high school.

It was rather amazing, and possibly pathetic, that I still got nervous at the simple mention of her name after all these years.

I'd been through college, gotten a job, and now I was moving to the other side of the state to teach middle school children English. She would hardly recognize me.

Hell, I hardly recognize me. Voluntarily throwing myself into unfamiliar situations. I was probably possessed.

I flipped through the class photos to find my own and audibly groaned when I saw it. I had blue hair back then, and of all things I had to be wearing an anime shirt under my flannel. Completely forgot. I really thought I had dyed it black before senior photos, but I guess not.

So emo.

I wasn't like that anymore. I dressed like a normal person, grew my hair out, stopped dying it, and learned how to hold a conversation without as many death jokes. Lots of puns still, but not the morbid ones.

Frowning a little in embarrassment, I put the book in the box and sealed it with the tape gun I had abandoned. God, I really hoped my brother wasn't the one to pack my books away or I'd never hear the end of it.

Even my sketchbooks, I noted, reaching for another pile, were incredibly dark. Girls with skeleton faces, boys with stitched mouths, and a lot more demons than I remember feeling the need to draw.

It must not have been a good time for me.

I was flipping through the last folder--I had titled it "Portfolio" and it had some halfway decent art in it, but it still made me cringe--when the front door opened.

Sadly, I didn't have time to shove all my old sketchbooks into a box before she walked to my side and stared down at the drawings in my hands.

"Whas dat," she mumbled around a mouth full of what was probably my going away cake. I would've punched anyone else for that kind of transgression.

"No," I said reflexively. Hurriedly, I grabbed the tape and tried to seal the box.

"But I wanna seeeeeeeeee," she whined, snagging it out of my hands before I could finish.

I turned to glare at her. "Lynn. No. Bad girl." She leaned closer, twisting her face into a childish pout. Cute.

"Please?" she asked innocently. She leaned ever so closer, her green eyes inches from mine. I could make out little fleck of brown in her left iris.

It's really not my fault for staring. I mean, anyone with a beautiful girl sitting a breath away would get distracted. She took the opportunity to slide the portfolio out of my lap while I blinked away the image of her fluttering eyelashes.

I knew I could fight her and that she would back off if I wanted, but I didn't bother.

I may have still had a crush on a girl from years and years ago, but Lynn was a lot more than a crush.

Lynn was--

"Oh wow," she exclaimed, turning to show me an incredibly disturbing depiction of some Old West gallows. "Damn. High school was a dark time for you."

I snorted, trying to keep a grin off my face. "Oh please, like you didn't go through that punk phase and cut up all your shirts. I’ve seen the pictures."

She rolled her eyes and scooted closer so our shoulders bumped together. "I like this one." She pointed to a drawing I had titled Zombie Clown Carnival of Death. "Is it supposed to be some kind of metaphor, or are you just predicting the clown/zombie apocalypse?"

"A metaphor," I said, my brain attempting to come up with some kind of meaning for it. "It represents society. People are all dressed up, ready to go out, but they're hiding their staggering, zombie-like selves from the rest of the world with some colorful clothes."

Lynn raised her eyebrows, so I changed my strategy.

"The government thought they could hide the zombies from us by disguising them as clowns, but I figured it out. Made some anti-clown propaganda. Started a movement."

She sniffed, wiping a pretend tear from her cheek. "That's beautiful. You're gonna save the world."

I smiled. "Hell yeah I am."

She sobered as she flipped to the next piece. A self-portrait. It was easy to see what I thought of myself back then.

While the folder was filled with bunches of drawings of people, my self-portrait was the only one done in shades of grey. I had colored all the others, sketching my friends with rosy cheeks and bright smiles while I cast my eyes downward and hid my face in the shadow of my hair.

“Such emo,” I joked. Lynn nodded her head, eyes fixated on the drawing.

“You’re amazing,” she said suddenly. I blinked. She turned to me again, impossibly close, and I forced myself to keep my gaze from wandering. Lynn was trying to be serious. “I’m glad I met you. You’re my favorite emo.”

I leaned forward to kiss her, a smile on my face. “I should hope so.” She grinned, seizing her chance to pull me ever closer.

Yeah, I thought, running a hand through her short hair. She’s a lot more than a crush.