Then came the tears. There were a lot. In fact, I was pretty sure they’d never turn off. I’m not even sure why, other than it felt like I was a vampire stepping into the light for the first time, and my skin and brain were on fire and nothing seemed to take away the pain.

But then my mom and I started to talk. We talked about my dad. We talked about Landon. We talked about me. We talked about what I did. We talked and talked and talked. She got angry and I cried. She cried and I cried.

“Nova,” she said through tears. “I feel like this is all my fault. I knew when your father died… how he died… that you saw it, that it had to be hard for you, but I never forced you to talk about it with me. I only suggested it.”

“But I couldn’t talk about it with you,” I’d replied, hugging a pillow against my chest, balled up on the bed. “You were sad yourself.”

“I’m your mother,” she said, smoothing my hair away from my forehead, like I was still a little kid, and maybe at the moment to her I was. Maybe we were going back in time and doing what we should have done to begin with. “It’s my job to make sure you’re okay, even if I’m hurting.”

“I didn’t want to make you hurt more.”

“That’s not how it works. If anything we should have hurt together.”

We started to cry again, and it seem like we were never going to stop, but finally, like almost everything always eventually does, our tears faded.

It’s been over a month since I ran away from the concert, and my head is a lot clearer than it’s been in a very long time, maybe even since my dad died. It’s strange, but it took all this time for me to realize just how hazy things had gotten. Somehow, through Landon’s death, through wrangling the mourning, through life, I lost my way. I’m still working my way back from it, one baby step at a time, trying to heal myself correctly this time.

I managed to take out the sketches Landon’s parents gave to me and let myself cry without running away from them. They really were beautiful sketches, and it hurts to think that his talent doesn’t exist anymore, but I have a piece of his talent still—a piece of him—and I’ll always hold on to it. I’ve finally accepted his death, and it’s good to remember him in healthy doses. I’m learning that it’s okay. It’s okay to hurt. It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to admit when we need help. It’s okay to let go.

Not everything is easy and perfect, though. I still need my anxiety medication. I still find myself counting sometimes. I still get lost in memories of Landon. The key is letting it pass instead of searching for a quick Off switch. I feel it, I move with it, and then I move past it.

And I don’t have to move past it alone. I’ve been going to a group where people can talk about loss, specifically related to suicide. It helps to hear stories, to know I’m not the only one to wonder so much that it nearly cracked my head open. I plan on going to one when I’m back at school. I’ve also finally picked a major. Film. I’m still not one hundred percent sure if I want to stick with it, but it’s a start to working on some of my goals or at least setting them. I also might do a minor in music, but I’m taking it one step at a time now. I’m focusing on moving forward and slowly accepting the past, getting better, and trying to create a future. And I know I’ll be able to because I want to. And just like my dad told me once: if you want something bad enough, anything’s possible.

I haven’t talked to Quinton since I left. Delilah stopped by my house a few times, but we’re no longer on the same page, and I’m not strong enough to bring her up with me, nor can I fall with her. She’s not going back to school, something she disclosed during her third visit.

“I’m happy here,” she’d said while we sat on the living room couch. My mom wouldn’t let us go into my room, afraid of what we’d do behind closed doors, and I was okay with that. I’m afraid of closed doors, too.

“I don’t think you should stay,” I’d said, noting how thin she was starting to look. “There’s nothing here, really.”

“There’s Dylan. And my life,” she replied snippily. “And that matters to me.”

Her pupils were wide and shiny, and she had this funny smell to her. She’s also chopped her hair off and her skin was a little pallid. I could tell she was on something, and that the person sitting in front of me was not the Delilah I met back in high school. This was her alter ego. A darker side of her. A reflection in a cracked mirror.

“Okay,” I said, knowing I had to let her go, but it was hard. “But if you change your mind, I leave on Friday and you can come with me.”

“I won’t.” She got up from the couch, left my house, and I haven’t seen her since.

“Are you sure you just don’t want to stay home for a semester?” My mom asks, carrying out the last of the boxes, the one that carries my drumsticks. I’m taking the pink drums back to school with me, even though I haven’t played them again yet. I’m planning on it, though, when it feels right.

“Are you seriously trying to talk me into dropping out of school?” I joke, tossing a section of my drums onto the leather backseat of the cherry-red Nova. I’m driving it back to school, which is scary, but it’s one of my goals. Besides, it’s what my dad wanted.

She sighs, pushing the trunk closed. “No, but I worry.” She walks up to me, with her arms crossed, like she’s resisting the urge to grab me and haul me back into the house. “I feel like I just got you back and now you’re leaving me again.”

I hug her, and I mean really hug her, without fear or restraint. “I know, but it’s a good thing, Mom. It’s… it’s my way of moving on.”

“I know, Nova,” she hugs me tightly to the point that I can barely breathe. “And I’m proud of you for admitting everything to me. Whether you think so or not, you’re a brave person.” She pulls back and looks me in the eyes. “Not many people can admit they’re heading down the wrong path.”

“But doesn’t it kind of make me weak for even going down the path?” I ask, blinking against the bright sunlight, refusing to shield my eyes from it.

She shakes her head. “We all do stuff that isn’t great. You’ve been through a lot… a lot more than most. And the important thing is you pulled yourself out of it.” Tears start to bubble up in the corners of her blue eyes. “I’m just glad to have my daughter back.”

Not completely, but I’m working on it, and that’s the important part. “I love you too, Mom.”

She embraces me in a hug, and it’s hard to get her to let me go, but ultimately she does and I get into the car, and she heads into the house. I take a deep breath, buckle my seat belt, and then reach for my phone in my pocket.

I hold the phone up to my eye level and then hit Record.

“In a sense it kind of seems like I’m starting over, like it’s freshman year again.” I roll my eyes, but then smile, and it’s a real smile, not the fake, plastic ones I’ve been using for the last year. “Because I was so out of it last year, I could barely comprehend what was going on. But now I’m ready to embrace what lies ahead of me instead of drifting through it. I don’t want to drift. That broken, lost, wandering, searching-for-something-that-will-never-exist-again Nova is not who I want to be. And while I don’t know exactly who I am, the important part is that I’m focusing on discovering it in a healthy way.”

I smile, and it brightens up the whole screen. “Hopefully the next video I make, I’ll have more.” I pause, taking a deep breath. “Now I just need to make one more stop, because if I’ve learned anything, good-byes are important, even if they’re scary and awkward. Always, always, say good-bye.”

I click off the camera and put it away, heading down the driveway with one thought in my mind.

Time to let go and move forward.

When I pull up to the trailer park, it takes me a moment to gather myself together and find the strength to get out of the car. My first instinct is to start counting all the cracks in the house, the buckets in front of the fence, the broken windows. But I calm myself down and remind myself that I need to do this; otherwise I’ll regret it.

I get out, walk through the gate, and trot up the steps to the front door. I smooth down my hair, tug the bottom of my shorts down, and adjust one of the fallen straps on my shirt. Then I raise my hand and knock on the door.

There’s a lot of banging going on side the house, along with laughter, and I can also hear music. I knock again, louder, and a few moments later the door swings open.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Dylan asks. He looks different, thinner, paler, grungier, with sunken eyes, and sores all over his face, and his shaved head almost looks wrinkly. “Do you want to talk to Delilah or something?”

I shake my head, crossing my arms over my chest, telling myself that I’m okay. Everything is okay. “No, I want to talk to Quinton.”

He rolls his eyes, annoyed, and then opens the door wider. Smoke spills out like poison vapor and I’m not sure whether I hate the scent or miss it. “He’s in his room.”

I take a step back toward the stairs, knowing that until I can hate the scent, I need to stay away. “Can you go get him?” I ask as politely as I can.

He cusses under his breath, his face reddening, and I think he’s going to slam the door in my face. But then he says, “Hang on.”

He leaves the door open, and I catch a glimpse of the people inside, doing things that want to pull me in. I take another step back, continuing until I reach the bottom of the stairs. Then I sit down on the step and wait for him. The music keeps bumping, vibrating against the ground, and I hear someone shout something about everyone taking their clothes off and it’s echoed by cheering. I want to leave, but I need to do this.

Wait for him.

Seconds later, I hear his voice, and it makes my heart leap inside my chest. “Nova, what are you doing here?”

I turn around, preparing myself to see him again, but it still impacts me more than I hoped. He looks different, too, thinner, paler, and his jawline is scruffy and unshaven. His hair has grown out a little and is sticking up all over his head. But his eyes are still the same honey-brown-tinted red and overflowing with sorrow.

I get to my feet and brush off the dirt from the backs of my legs. “I came to say good-bye.”

He smashes his lips together as he hesitates at the top of the steps. He doesn’t have a shirt on, and his jeans hang loose at his waist. I can see his muscles are diminishing and not as firm as the last time I saw him, and the tattoos on his arms: Lexi, Ryder, and no one, along with the scar he never told me about, either. One day, if I ever see him again, I’ll have to get him to tell me what they mean and where the scar came from, when we’re both in a different place and can handle it. I want to be there for him, and help him with whatever he’s going through, but I have to heal myself first before I can be a good support system.