19 months.

19 months of not knowing if Lottie and her teammates were alive. 19 months of thinking about what you last said to her before she boarded the plane.

"I don't think we should be together anymore." You didn't mean it. You were just having a bad episode and in a moment of weakness, you thought it would be best if Lottie and you didn't see each other anymore. You don't know where these sudden feelings came from; she loves you unconditionally but your brain had you really messed up that week. You crawled out her window and rushed back home before she could even process what you had said, already regretting everything. Days went by with no response from her, and you figured she deleted your number after she landed in Seattle. Then you heard about the plane crash. It ruined you. The authorities had said they crashed somewhere in Canada. They didn't even make it to Seattle. You were worried sick for her and the other girls, and the guilt of what you said ate you alive.

At least she's here now, alive and back with you. She only returned a few weeks ago, but you're finally able to see her. Now she won't talk to you.

"Lott? Please, say something. I need to know you're okay," you plead, trying to get her gaze to land on you. She's just staring blankly at the wall behind you like she's not even here.

Lottie flickers her eyes toward you for a split second, and you see nothing. No emotion inside of them. When you would look at her before, you could see the whole world in them. Even if she was sad you could see the feelings swirling around in them. But now there's nothing but emptiness.