“Can you quit it with the jealousy thing already?”
“Because once we're at Lakewood, I'm not telling anyone you're my boyfriend if you keep acting like this!”
Every message ended with an exclamation mark. Every message carried that same familiar tone — talking down to me like I was a child being scolded.
Like I'd done something wrong again. Overreacted again. Like it was my turn to apologize again.
I read them twice.
Then I laughed.
She didn't know that just one day earlier, I'd already changed my college application from Lakewood University to Northfield Institute of Technology.
It was the least hesitant decision I'd ever made in my life.
Back home, I started clearing out everything that had to do with her.
A thick stack of ticket stubs. A jar of folded paper stars. More than a dozen birthday cards.
Her handwriting on those cards was crooked and uneven, spanning elementary school to senior year — the little-kid ones signed “Love, Daryl's Nora”, the later ones just “Daryl”, bare and cool, no warmth left in it.
I piled all of it into a large cardboard box.
Then the walls.
A photo of us at fifteen, both in school uniforms outside the front gate. She was smiling wide. I stood half a head taller.
On my nightstand, a ceramic figurine she'd made by hand — a cat so ugly it barely looked like one. She'd insisted it looked like my face.
I held the little cat for two seconds, then tossed it in too.
The box was almost full.
I didn't seal it right away.
Every single thing in there came with a story I could tell.
One movie ticket stub was from the 3D re-release of *Titanic*. She'd cried during the film.
Leaned against my shoulder to wipe her eyes, told me we could never end up like Jack and Rose.
An amusement park ticket from that summer trip — she'd insisted on riding the roller coaster, then halfway through she was so terrified she dug her nails into my arm. Five bruises. I couldn't stop wincing.
There was a scarf she'd knitted in a middle school home-ec class.
The stitches were crooked, the loose ends not even tucked in, but she swore it was the best-looking one in the entire class.
The box was packed to the brim. Every inch of it was her.
Fifteen years of her, from age three to seventeen.
My entire youth.
My phone buzzed.
Not a call. A social media notification.
I tapped it open. Jayden Morton had just posted.
Two photos.
The first was a hotel room. Dim, warm lighting. White sheets.
The second was a close-up of a pair of crystal heels, toppled on the carpet, one lying sole-up.
I recognized them instantly.
Last year for Nora's birthday, I'd saved three months of allowance and asked my dad for an advance on my holiday money just to buy those shoes.
The sole had the Swarovski crystal logo. Size six. Exact fit.
When she'd tried them on, she walked laps around her room and told me they were the most beautiful heels she'd ever worn.
Jayden's caption read：“She said she drank too much and made me take her to a hotel. Exhausting.”
The comments underneath were piling up.
“Bro, you're living the dream!”
“She came to YOU? Those heels aren't cheap — and neither is she!”
I stared at those shoes for a few seconds.
Walked back to the box and wrapped the packing tape around it three times.
Carried it downstairs and dropped it into the trash bin outside the villa.
It hit the bottom with a dull thud, and then it was quiet.
Over the next few days, Nora didn't call. Didn't text. Not once.
Fine by me.
A week later, Jade Finch posted in the class group chat about a reunion dinner.
Then messaged me privately, said I had to come.
She was Nora's closest friend — the two of them had been inseparable since freshman year of high school.
I had a pretty good idea what she was trying to do.
Told her I was busy. Couldn't make it.
