I let go of her arm. "I know, I'm sorry."

"Are you, though?" she hissed. Her words were harsh, punishing. "Because you're acting as if nothing's changed. But it has. Everything's changed."

I reached for her again but she’d stepped back, tripping over herself. Her hands came up, as if protecting herself from me. She had no reason to be afraid. "Stop," she breathed out. "Just stop."

She turned and headed for the door again. Blood rushed to my ears. I blinked, trying to focus. I couldn't let her go. I couldn't lose her. Not again. "Wait!"

Her body stiffened.

"Wait. Please," I said. I was begging, and I didn't give a shit.

She turned quickly, her eyes glazed with tears. "Wait?" she spat out. "Fuck you, Logan, I did wait. I waited for you at the fucking hospital. I waited for you when I got home, and you weren't fucking there. I waited a week before showing up at your house and begging—fucking begging—for you to take me back." She pushed against my chest. I fell back a step. "And then I waited for you to come back to me. But you never did, Logan. You never came back." She wiped her tears and sniffed once, straightening her body. Then she looked me square in the eyes, and through gritted teeth, said, "You just fucking left me."

Her words left me shattered.

10

Amanda

My body shook from the anger that overcame me. He had no right.

I watched the emotion on his face. He looked dejected, broken. Good. Maybe he understood just a small amount of how he’d made me feel.

His shoulders lifted with each breath, as if struggling to find the air. It felt like an eternity. "Baby," he said again.

And something in me snapped. I lost control. I didn't mean to do what I did next.

My palm stung the instant it made contact with his face. I don't know what was louder, the sound of the slap, or my gasp that followed.

"Shit." I stepped forward. "Logan, I'm so sorry." My hand reached up to cup his face, but his sturdy grip on my forearm stopped me. He pushed my arm away forcefully. I wanted to cry. I'd never want to hurt him, especially not like that.

"It's fine, Amanda," he croaked.

I'd broken him.

I shut my eyes tight and let the tears fall. "Logan." My voice was strained.

He licked his lip, and then wiped it with the back of his hand. That's when I saw it—blood. It didn't effect me the way it used to. We'd studied something similar in my psych class, and I'd learnt to control it. I'd taught myself how to mentally separate the site of blood from Ethan's accident.

I cursed under my breath and stepped forward, but he took a step back, afraid of me. I let out a sob. "Logan," I said again. I didn't know what else to say.

He looked away from me. "I think maybe you should leave. I'll walk you to your car."

I just nodded and followed behind him. We walked to my car in dead silence. He opened the door for me when I unlocked it. He even made sure I was seated properly before he closed it. But he didn't say a word. I wound down my window and opened my mouth to speak.

"It's fine," he said, interrupting me. He placed his hands in his pockets and took a step back. "Take care, okay?"

I held it together long enough to nod and pull away from the curb. It wasn't until I got home and under my sheets that I let it out. Tristan came in after a few minutes and wordlessly joined me. He wrapped his arms around me, and assured me that whatever was happening—it was going to be okay.

I looked into his green eyes, so similar to Logan's. "I don't think it will be this time."

"I'm sorry," he said.

So was I.

Logan

Five flights of stairs later, I was back in my apartment. I triple-checked the four deadbolts on the door before finally throwing myself onto the bed. "Fuck." I rubbed my tender cheek and tried to ignore the metallic taste of blood on my lip. Reaching into the small box next to my bed, I felt around until my fingers skimmed the worn leather of the book. I pulled it out and fanned the pages, looking for the first blank one. The picture fell out. It was beyond faded, but it didn't matter. It could've been completely erased, and the image would still be etched in my memory. I had the same one on my desk back home. Home. There was no such place for me. Not unless you counted Amanda as home.

I flipped to the beginning and read the first sentence I ever wrote.

*

Five weeks post Amanda.

There are no dates here. Only time passing with each moment.

Dear Diary—says the twelve-year-old girl in me.

Manny, one of the guys in the field with me, told me I was depressed. I don't think I am, but whatever. He said 'Loma, go write down your shitty feelings in a journal and you'll feel better.' Loma—that's me. Apparently it stands for LO-gan MA-tthews. It's a thing here. I asked him what his name stood for; he looked at me like I was crazy. 'It doesn't stand for anything, asshole, my name's Manny.'

So that's Manny.

I don't know if he was kidding or not, but here I am, writing my shitty feelings in a journal.

I miss her.

That's the only feelings I have.

I miss the absolute shit out of her.

If I sit around and question the reason I'm here, I get even more depressed. Fuck. Manny was right.

Location: Africa

Am I doing this wrong? Should I be writing where I am at the beginning? Fuck it.