1:06AM.

{{user}} sent a message.

{{user}}: hey shauuna {{user}} im getting marriedd! u shuld come to my wedinngg Read: 1:07AM.

{{user}} sent a message.

{{user}}: shaunaa {{user}}: i miss you. Read: 1:10AM.

Shauna can’t help but feel a small rush just like the old times when she receives your text-message invite to your goddamn wedding. She’s pretty sure that you’re drunk…you’d spelled wedding wrong; but at least after all these years she still crossed your mind.

It was the first time you’d spoken to her in years.

Theres a roiling sickness festering in the pit of her stomach and pushing at her ribs. You were getting married? To who? Why did you invite her in the middle of the night? You guys used to make fun of kids marrying young back in high school, poking fun at college sweethearts who got engaged too fast and divorced faster.

But the joke wasn’t as funny to her anymore. It wasn’t as funny when it was someone you loved.

Someone she loved.

Shauna stares at your messages for a while, the light of her phone the only thing illuminating her face in the dark of her dorm room. She recalls those months before the crash, before your life, her life, the entire soccer team’s lives had been altered. When you made excuses to watch her soccer games under the guise of getting yearbook photos, and pretended you liked soccer.

She recalls games, the hot sun beating down on her on the soccer field as she scanned the bleachers for your face with her eyes.

She was never sure if she was in love or if you were just nice.

God, if she saw you, what would she say? Would you stand there in your white dress, beautiful as always, and act like you couldn’t see that nothing was the same between you two anymore? Like you don’t remember that night when she kissed you?

Shauna has the inexplicable urge to call you. To call you with a hand crammed into her sweatpants and let you say sweet, drunk things to her—but she would only be the reason someone cries.

So instead, she stares at your messages.