Have you ever been totally alone? And I don't mean the type of "alone" where your friends are just in a different place than you, I mean when you don't have any friends.

Newsflash: it sucks major balls.

I kept drawing, but it wasn't anything constructive. I didn't draw her either; I wanted nothing to do with her any more. She would text me a lot in the days that followed the party fiasco; "Can we talk?" "Can you answer me?" "What's going on?" Every one of them came through, it made me want less to do with her. It was like she was going to try and pretend nothing happened. So if she could pretend she had done nothing wrong, I could pretend she wasn't sending my anything. That seemed fair to me.

New Year's came and went, and classes started up again. I got a new schedule, since our electives changed at the mid-year, and I wasn't in her history class any more. That made it plenty easy to avoid her during the day. I would see her around the halls, but she was always draped all over him or surrounded by Barbie dolls or looking like she didn't remember what she did. It made it very easy for me to slip by, unnoticed. I was meant to blend into the woodwork, anyways. After all, who was I in the high school food chain? I was the bottom of the barrel, glasses-wearing art club freak. If you were to cast me more than a passing glance, you'd be swallowed whole by the apex predators, and I can't name many people who would be willing to take that risk. So I was doing everyone a favor; I was staying invisible.

I was so invisible that I hardly noticed how quickly freshman year ended. My rhythm of school-homework-Reddit-guitar-sketching-bed turned each day into less than a blink of an eye. I entered a few pieces I had worked on to a competition through the art club, and I managed to take second place in pencil sketching. That was a nice boost of confidence in me to know that I was indeed good at something, even if that something wasn't important to my peers. I went into the summer with a feverish desire to draw more, to get better with my sketching, to place first in the next competition and get more attention. I worked on a freehanded portrait through the summer months and sent it to a magazine competition, and it ended up being featured in the next publication. Mom was overjoyed, since lots of her nurse friends at the hospital subscribed to the magazine and she kept getting compliments on how talented her son is. I could care less than what hospital ladies thought about my drawing, I wanted to see it printed in magazines and up on walls and with ribbons on it. It was a way to be recognized for something that didn't have anything to do with her any more.

Summer was over, and I went back to school for my sophomore year. I drew a lot more, entering more contests in magazines and winning more recognition. A couple people started to mention my submissions in the hall between classes, but it wasn't anything more than "I saw your drawing in the last issue." No comments on the quality, no thoughts on what the piece made them think of, just "I saw it" and walking away. But, it was more than I had been exposed to my freshman year, which sort of made me not hate waking up in the morning knowing I ran the risk of seeing her again.

It was at this point I realized it was slightly childish that I was still refusing to call Anna by her first name, opting instead to use "her" for most of the spring and through the summer. Back to classes in the fall, though, I worked her name back into my vocabulary. I got a few more minutes on the field with the football team during that fall, seeing as one of our senior corners was gone from last year and there were only sophomores left. Goodman was obviously starting, but the other corner slot was open and the other three of us were rotated through every drive. When I was in, I could hear a single voice calling out above the rest: "Let's go, Micah!" It was Anna, every time. She was still on the cheer squad, and because of that she was at every game. She was the only one to cheer for me while I played, but then after the games when I would leave the locker room she wouldn't pay attention to me. The dichotomy there was painfully representative of our relationship in that moment in time.

While I hadn't spoken with Anna in nearly a full year, I had most certainly heard plenty about her. My invisible-man status on campus left me as a fly on the wall for many a conversation. Anna and Stuart had broken up and gotten back together twice over the summer, but in the middle of football season the separated again and she got together with another one of the guys on the team; I was witness to a couple shoving matches in the locker room before practice between Stuart and this new boy. That new relationship had only been a fling, and come the end of the season she had broken up with him as well and all the stories I heard about her were from people she had gone to parties with. From the sounds of things—although it was all taken with a grain of salt, since the people recounting them also confessed to being incredibly drunk—Anna held her liquor well and was always the life of the party.

I chose to infer my own definition of what it meant to be the "life of the party."

Christmas Break came again, and I had a small celebration with Mom and her brother. Holidays had always been tough since Dad left when I was still in elementary school, but Mom tried hard to make the best of it for my sake. I always felt terrible the day afterwards, when it finally hit me exactly how much Mom sacrificed for me to have a good day and forget about the fact that Dad left. Her brother, Ike, had flown in from Seattle for the first time in a few years, so it was enjoyable to see him again. His question as to if I had found myself a girlfriend yet, though, wasn't that enjoyable. Because it opened up an opportunity for my mother to slip in a comment about Anna, and it completely soured my mood for the next couple hours; an unfair turn of events for Ike, whose time with us was limited as it already stood. Overall though, the experience was great and I was sad to see Ike go home so soon.

What followed, though, was nothing short of a full-out investigation. My mother, bless her heart, had finally caught on that Anna hadn't been over in ages, and was determined to figure out why that might be the case. Daily questions, trying to peer over my shoulder when I was on my phone, not leaving school right away when she picked me up and conspicuously searching the throngs of students for the auburn hair she had grown so accustomed to seeing alongside me for years. It was irritating, it felt like my whole existence was being reduced to a tool to let my mom see Anna, while I very much felt like I could get along without her—that is, if the past year was any indicator of anything.

So I went a year without speaking to Anna in any capacity. I would ignore her texts, send her calls to voicemail, and pass by her in the halls like the ghost I was supposed to be. In the early stages, the texts came pretty frequently, but as the months went by they became more spread out. Eventually, by mid-July, they had stopped coming. Once school started back up, and football season got underway, I would get one maybe once every couple weeks, then I got one on Christmas Day, and one on New Year's eve at the turn of the year. Winter turned into spring with surprising speed, and the time came for my birthday. It was a big day, I was turning sixteen and that meant I could get my driver's license. I passed the initial practical test and received my learner's permit, and I drove back home from the registry to get some practice under my belt. Uncle Ike had dropped a bit of money on Mom to buy me a real beater of a car as his gift for my big birthday bash, and I came home to it in the driveway.

So now I was alone and mobile, which meant I spent a lot of time in town. I took my sketchbooks to this local coffee place, Sweaty Beans, and sat in the corner and drew portraits of people. I was good at anime-style caricatures, but I wanted to work on developing more realism in my art in order to try and create a more believable image. So I would spend hours every Saturday in Sweaty's, from the moment they opened until just before dinner, letting a cup of coffee grow cold on the table next to me as I sketched the people that rolled through getting their drinks and having their dates and trying to look like they were writing the next great American blog post. I got to know the baristas pretty well; Matyas was a recent college graduate from Hungary that had been unfortunate enough to break down in Aarondale, and he worked with Karyn the Cat Lady—named so because of one time she brought her cat to work with her—on Saturday mornings through noon. Then noon to seven was covered by local boy Paul, who went to high school with me, and his cousin Lilly, who had just graduated from Yale University School of Art with a degree in Photography. I guess, if you were to ask, I would call these baristas my friends; if by friends you mean they let me sketch them sometimes and realized quicker than most people that I didn't like to be talked to. I did chat with them time and again, and I did get to know them somewhat, so it wasn't as though I was a crab apple about them doing their jobs. I actually liked Sweaty's a whole lot; I came in and noodled on my guitar during open mic hours a few times too, so it wasn't as though I just sat in the corner like a serial killer and drew people. And the people that came through regularly started to catch on and talk to me too, about a piece they'd seen in a magazine or online; come the middle of June, as school was ending, I wouldn't usually start sketching until around noon when the regulars had rolled out and I could see the plethora of random or part-time Sweat-ers that funneled through the increasingly popular coffee spot. Management had even started commissioning sketches of different parts of the store from me, and the walls slowly began to fill with framed pencil drawings from my sketch pad, garnering even more attention from the people that came to visit. I was liking the attention my art was getting.

It was the end of June, and school was over for the summer. I had gone a full eighteen months without so much as saying a single word to Anna, nearly three months without her sending me a text,

and almost ten weeks without thinking about her. On the first Saturday morning of my official summer vacation, I woke up bright and early with Mom as she was preparing to go to work and put together my things to go to Sweaty's. I packed a backpack with sketchbooks and pencils, my iPad, and my headphones. I pocketed my wallet, stuffed chargers for my phone and tablet into the side pockets of my bag, and started to pack my guitar. It wasn't an open mic, but I promised Karyn that I'd let her listen to me play today, since she hadn't been able to hear me at any of the open mic shows before. Normally, Sweaty's didn't allow musicians during normal business hours unless there was open mic, but I had gotten special clearance from the boss to put on a little concert for the regulars this morning.

There was a knock on my door. I turned to see Mom standing in the threshold, wearing her favorite pink scrubs with the flower on the chest. "Are you going to Sweaty's?" she asked.

I nodded. "Yeah," I said, slinging my backpack over my shoulder and lifting my guitar case. "Why, do you need something?"

She shook her head. "No, I was just wondering." She bit her lower lip.

I furrowed my brow. "Mom?"

She puffed some air out of her nose. "It's just…I have…I have plans tonight, so…well, I wanted to know if you were going so I'd know when you'd be home; if you're planning on staying late, I'll have to leave some money out for pizza or Chinese or something, that way you won't go hun—"

"Plans?" I raised an eyebrow at her. "You never have plans, Mom." I smiled. "Awesome! What's the occasion?"

Mom tensed up. "Nothing special, just dinner."

"Who with? The girls again?"

She shook her head, crossing her arms. "Doctor Caldwell, from anesthesiology." I must have looked confused, because Mom's face grew panicked. "It's not…well, it's kind of a date, Micah; I can't lie about that. He asked me if I wanted to go for Thai tonight and I said yes."

I took a few beats to process what it was that Mom was telling me. "Okay," I said, "I guess that's fine. I mean…" I took a step past her and started walking downstairs. "Are you looking for, like, my permission or something?"

"No, Micah, I was just keeping you informed." We entered the kitchen and I put down my guitar case by the garage door. Mom leaned against the counter. "I didn't know what you would think about me trying to put myself out there again, so I wanted you to know that I was going to start trying to date again."

I wrinkled my nose. "Don't tell me you're 'putting yourself out there,' Mom."

Her eyes practically rolled to the floor. "Micah, that's not what I meant." I gave her a halfhearted smile to show that I hadn't been serious. She gestured with her hands, almost pleading. "I need to know if you're okay with this, honey; I don't want to make you upset or uncomfortable."

I shrugged. "Honestly, mom, if you want to try dating again I'm not going to stop you. It's going to be awkward no matter what you say or do about it, so I guess I'd be fine to roll with whatever comes."

Mom smiled. "Okay, Micah," she said, "as long as that's what you really think."

"But," I interjected, causing Mom to freeze in place. I smirked, ironically so. "I do have to ask you something."

"What?"

I sighed. "It's just…after Dad, how can you ever want to be with a man again?"

Mom was silent for a long time. She stalked across the kitchen to me, taking my hands in hers and looking at them softly. "I guess," she began, "I just feel like I want to try again, get it right this time." She looked me in the eye. "And not that you were some kind of mistake I made; you're my son, and I would die for you. I think that, even if you've been hurt, the best way to move on is to use the past to shape your future." She craned her neck up and kissed me on the forehead. "What happened what your Dad hurt me deeply, and it hurt you too. That's why I wanted to ask, because I know I'm not the only one whose world would be changing. I wanted to know if you would be willing to shape a new future with me."

I sighed. "Mom…" I gave her a hug. "I love you, Mom."

"Thank you, baby," she replied, "I'll love you forever, my sweetie boy."

I smiled. "Don't say that in public," I joked, "you'll ruin my street cred."

Mom pulled out of the hug and gave me a death glare. "I'll call you my sweetie boy wherever I want, young man; I am your mother!"

I kissed her on the cheek and picked up my guitar from the floor, flinging open the garage door. "I'll be back after five, so if you're leaving earlier or at that time, some pizza money would be appreciated." I grinned as the door began to shut behind me. "Have fun on your date, Mom," I said quickly.

"Bye, honey," she said, waving.

"And," I added, just as the door was closing, "don't worry about ruining my street cred; I don't have any to ruin." I winked at her when she smiled, and the door closed in front of my face.

Good for her, I thought as I loaded up my car. It's been quite a few years, I guess; maybe it is time for her to try dating again.

And I hadn't lied to her; I was happy to hear that from her.

Sweaty's was busy today, which was probably because word had gotten around that I was going to be playing guitar this morning. I walked in and went to my usual seat in the corner, the one within easy reach of a wall outlet, and set my backpack on the table. I unclipped my guitar case and lifted the lid open, checking to see if everything was still in order from when I had packed it that morning. I heard footsteps behind me, and I turned to see Matyas approaching with a mug in his hand. "Good morning, Micah," he said cheerfully in his thick Hungarian accent, "here is the latte for you."

"Thanks, Matty," I said, "good to see you today." I panned my eyes around the shop quickly, checking to see who was there. Mr. Geoffrey was in the corner wearing his usual worn ball cap and eating the buttered bagel he always got, and his wife sat next to him with a newspaper opened on the table, staring down at it through the tiny glasses that rested on the tip of her nose. There was also Marsh, Toby, Yvette, Bryce, Mrs. Thompkinsson, and Kenny Davis; apparently the whole gang had turned out bright and early for me. I looked back to Matyas. "What's the plan, dude? Do I just go whenever I'm ready?"

Matyas nodded. "Play as you like, we will stay in business as usual." He smiled. "Karyn has excitement for hearing you play; I have been saying things to make you good to her."

I smirked, "Good to hear, Matt. I'll get going in a minute or two." We bumped fists and he made his way back behind the counter. I unpacked my bag, setting my sketchbooks on the table and pulling out my iPad to tune up. Once it was plugged into the wall, I fired up my guitar tuner and plucked on the strings until they were perfect. Sliding my chair away from the table to give the neck of my guitar some room, I cranked out a couple chords to get everyone's attention. When a decent hush fell over the shop, I spoke up quickly. "Yea, so…I'm just gonna noodle around for a while. You can chat or whatever, it doesn't matter; I'm not singing today. Just to, like, let you know what's happening. Hope you like it."

I started playing something simple: "Brown Eyed Girl" by Van Morrison. Some of the people bobbed their head in time with the music, others kept going with their business. I transitioned into "She Will Be Loved," and the younger patrons got excited. I slowed everything down with some Billy Joel, and a murmur passed through the older patrons. Then I played one of my favorites, "Be the light," and everyone sort of settled into a calm rhythm of chatting and drinking coffee that was not unlike anything you would have seen any other Saturday morning. It was then I realized that I had become ambiance rather than a performer, and my fingers came to life. I free-styled for a little over an hour and a half, mixed in another handful of songs from memory, then opened up for requests.

I got a lot of pop requests, most of which I was able to find on my iPad, and I played for at least another hour before announcing that I would be packing up for the day. I got some sustained applause as I closed my guitar case and took a drink of the latte that Matyas had brought me. The regulars began to trickle out, and I checked my phone to see if I had gotten any calls or messages; predictably, there was nothing. I pulled out my wallet and started walking to the counter, ready to pay for my drink and also buy something to eat. Karyn lauded my efforts as I handed her the money. "I had no idea you were so talented," she exclaimed, "thank you so much for coming in to play for us today!"

I smiled, taking my change and pocketing the coins. "It's no trouble, honestly; I like playing guitar. I should be thanking you, or more like your boss, for letting me play during business hours."

Karyn waved her hand. "Don't be silly, sweetie, I'm sure he'd be fine with you playing here any time. Lord knows we'd love to hear more of you."

"Yea, you're really good; I wish I could hear you play more often, too."

The voice that floated up from behind me sent a chill down my spine. Slowly, I turned around to confirm what it was that I was thinking. The grey tank top shirt and daisy dukes, tan leather sandals, and oversize sunglasses hung from the front of the neckline. Her red hair, straightened and flowing down her back. She smiled shyly, her freckles wrinkling as her nose crinkled up. Matyas appeared at the counter, holding up a drink. "Ice cappuccino for Anna?"

She reached her hand out and took it from him. My tongue was firmly clamped between my teeth. I didn't know she was here today, I didn't think she would have known that I was going to be here today. Did she even like coffee? Watched silently as she raised the straw to her lips and took a sip. "I liked that song you did near the end," she said, "before people started asking you to play stuff for them. The Queen one." She was talking about "Who Wants to Live Forever;" I had taught it to myself over the last Christmas break. She crossed her legs over, tapping the floor with the point of her toe. "But, yea, I'd love to hear you play more some time. What do you think?"

I didn't have any words for her. She blinked a couple times, and I watched as the life in her eyes began to grow dull. Matyas slid my toasted english muffin over the counter for me. I took it slowly, picking at the butcher paper it was wrapped in. I kept remembering that phone call from that night after the party; Fine, I guess we're not the friends I thought we were. Goodbye, Micah. I shook my head slightly. I couldn't forget that she'd said those words to me, and I definitely couldn't forget what had happened at the party. I remembered what all her text had invariably said; Can we talk? I started to back away from her, back towards my sketchbook. I could throw the pages up in front of my face and disappear then, if I could just get back—

"Micah…" She reached out for me, her mouth dropping into a frown. "Micah, wait."

"Stop!" The shop grew quiet at the sound of my voice. I could see out of the corner of my eye that the other patrons were staring at us. My face started burning red. I took a deep, shaky breath. "Stop, please." She raised an eyebrow at me. She almost seemed to be patronizing me. I grit my teeth. "It's not that simple," I said.

"Micah…"

"It's not simple," I repeated, "not everything is that simple." I backed away further. "It's not that simple."

Anna's shoulders dropped. She took a step back as well. She took in a breath to speak, but let it out heavily. She spun on her heel and stomped out of the shop, the bells on the door tinkling as it shut on her heel.

I didn't remember sitting down again, nor did I remember picking up a pencil and starting to sketch. But then, suddenly, there I was. I blinked quickly, trying to acclimate to the situation I had just arrived in, and looked down at my sketchpad. I had already perfectly replicated the look on Anna's face as she turned to leave not a moment ago. "For God's sake," I muttered to myself furiously. My hand moved to crumple the paper into a pellet of garbage, but something in my heart stopped me.

I was curious. I wanted to see where this sketch was going.

I plugged my headphones into my iPad and opened my atmospheric music playlist. I set myself in my chair, shut my eyes, and took a deep breath.

Anna held her arms out in front of her, reaching for the viewer. Her hair billowed wildly around her face, and the fabric of her clothes was being similarly blustered. There were black hands reaching out and smothering her, enveloping her, dragging her down into an inky blackness that spread endlessly by her feet. Her hands were glowing with light, and between them floated small pieces of paper, decorated with a heart, that had been ripped to shreds.

Beneath it, the following was written: Myself for your pieces

An alert tone rang in my ears, disrupting the comfort of the rainforest-inspired track I had been enjoying as I finished up with the shading of my sketch. My pocket buzzed as well, meaning someone had just sent me an iMessage. My finger instinctively hit the corner of the screen, opening the Message app and revealing who it was from.

[1:25PM] Anna: I thought a lot about what to say to you after what happened this morning. I don't know what's going on, I don't know why you said what you did, but I'm sick of this. I'm sick of not talking to you any more. I've been sick of it since last year, and then this whole school year went by and nothing changed. It's not fair of you to ignore me like that. It's not fair to leave me in the dark.

I don't know what's wrong with you, I don't know what happened, I don't know what to do about it. I've been losing sleep over it for a very long time now. Was it something I did? Was it something I said? Is there something you need me to know? Is there something I can do for you? What's wrong, Micah?

I guess you're going to ignore this too, so at this point it's more for me than it is to try and tell you something. I hate this, Micah. You're my best friend, you've always been my best friend, and you always will be my best friend. I'm not going to keep my anger inside any more, today was the final straw. If you don't want to be friends any more, just keep doing what you're doing and have a nice life. Just know that I'm literally crying right now typing this because I'm thinking about what if you decide not to reply. I'm hurting, Micah, and you must be too. All I want it to know why. — Anna 3

I read the message three times. I sat back and thought about it. Something Mom had said this morning floated through my mind. "The best way to move on is to use the past to shape your future." That was why Mom was going on a date with Doctor Caldwell tonight, because she was going to use what she learned from Dad to make the rest of her life a life she could be happy with. Her past couldn't control her any more. Why couldn't I do that? Why couldn't I make what I wanted out of this broken friendship I had with Anna. I'm hurting, Micah…I most certainly hurt too. Dad had hurt Mom, but she was moving on from it. What was stopping me from doing that too?

Then, I typed a single phrase:

[1:40PM] Me: Don't go

I pulled out my phone and opened my contacts. I needed to call Mom, explain to her—

[1:40PM] Anna: What does that mean? Do you want to try to talk about it? Where do we go from here?

I took a deep breath.

[1:42PM] Me: I don't know. I don't want you to go.

[1:43PM] Anna: Micah, that's not as helpful as you might think it would be. Just because I want to hear from you doesn't mean you can just throw words at me and think it will solve everything.

[1:45PM] Me: I don't know what I want right now. The only thing I can think is that I don't want you to go away. Can I text you about it later?

There was a long pause that followed. The "typing" icon popped up and disappeared repeatedly over and over again.

[1:52PM] Anna: I want to talk to you on the phone or in person. Text me later and tell me when would work best for you to meet somewhere and talk.

I breathed out, not realizing until then that I hadn't breathed in a while.

[1:52PM] Me: Okay

I closed the Messenger app. I needed to figure out what shape I wanted my future to have, and I needed to figure it out soon.

I finished dialing Mom's number and punched the call button. It rang through to voicemail, and I hung up without leaving a message. Was Mom really the one to talk to about this? Not on the same day as her first date in almost twenty years. I needed someone to bounce thoughts off of, someone who could listen and let me process out loud and tell me if I was making a good choice. The baristas? No, that would be a horrible idea; they didn't know anything about me other than my art and my music. And, they didn't know Anna. That was really the most important part, an ability to know how Anna might respond to what I have to say. Maybe someone who has had to do something like this before, who's been working on a relationship for a long time…

Wait…that's perfect. I opened my contacts again and scrolled down to the number that had jumped into my head.

"Dylan? Hey, it's Micah. Listen, uh…are you busy right now? Can you meet me at Sweaty Beans? I have something really important I need you to help me with…"