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âHave fun, darling,â my mother said as I changed into my outfit for the reunion. âIâll have the bed made up for you by the time you get home.â
The reunion was already buzzing when I walked in. There were familiar faces, some more worn than others, greeting me with half-smiles and awkward hugs. The gym smelled of polished wood and nostalgia, but other than that, it didnât look like anything had changed.
A woman holding a glass of champagne
For some reason, people spoke in hushed tones, eyes darting around like they were searching for someone⊠or avoiding someone?
âGuess we donât invite the missing, huh? Penelope, anyone?â said a voice from behind me.
I turned around to see an old classmate, slightly buzzed, smirking as he sipped whiskey.
My grip on my glass of champagne tightened. I forced a smile, but inside, my mind was spinning.
Penelope.
A man holding a glass of whiskey
Her name hadnât been spoken in years, at least not to my face. It hung in the air, heavy with unsaid things.
âSome jokes donât age well, Malcolm,â I said, turning away before the conversation could dig deeper into my carefully constructed façade.
I didnât want to be here.
Later that night, back in my childhood room, sleep felt⊠distant. The house was too quiet, the kind of quiet that amplifies every creak. I remembered how difficult it used to be when I wanted to sneak out at night in my teens. This house held no secrets.
A woman sitting in her bed
Instead of trying to sleep, I found myself rummaging through my old bookshelf, chasing ghosts.
One ghost in particular:Â Penelope.
Then, I found itâmy yearbook. The leather cover was cracked, the pages yellowed with time. And as I flipped through, I stopped at Penelopeâs page.
There, scribbled in handwriting I didnât recognize, was a note.
Meet me where it all began.
A woman standing in front of a bookshelf
I stared at the words, my pulse racing.
Had I written this? Had she? The memories came flooding backâthe last time I saw Penelope, the fight, the betrayal, and the unanswered questions that had haunted me since I was eighteen. For the life of me, I couldnât remember who had written that note. I closed the book and looked at it, uneasy.
The next morning, the weight of those six words pulled me out of the house and into the heart of town. I needed answers. Why else was I here?
My first stop was the school, where an old teacher, Mrs. Harper, still worked. My shoes loudly announced my arrival as I walked into her classroom.
Mrs. Harperâs face lit up when she saw me, but the light dimmed as soon as I mentioned Penelope.
âOh, Marissa,â she said. âYouâre still on that? Itâs been years, honey⊠Havenât you moved on?â
âTell me what you know, please,â I pleaded.
âShe was troubled,â Mrs. Harper said, her eyes darting away. âBut back then⊠people didnât talk about these things. It was easier to pretend it was just teenage drama.â
âSo, you knew?â I asked, leaning in. âYou knew she was struggling, and no one did anything?â
âPenelope always seemed like she was carrying the weight of the world. Sheâd have these moments where sheâd zone out completely, like she was somewhere else. I suggested she talk to the school counselor.â
I had a flashback of Penelope hunched over the bathroom sink. Her eyes were bloodshot, and her hair was wild, like she had been pulling at her hair, finally at her witsâ end.
âPen,â I said, walking closer to her. âTalk to me?â
Penelope glanced at her reflection, her eyes hollow.
âDo you ever feel like⊠like youâre drowning, even when nothingâs wrong? Like you canât breathe, but everyone around you just sees you smiling?â
âPen, maybe you need to talk to someone. Someone who can help.â
Penelope scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping her lips.
âHelp? Theyâll just say Iâm overreacting. That Iâm fine, just a little stressed. But itâs more than that, Marissa. Itâs like⊠I donât belong anywhere. Not in this town, not in my own head.â
Mrs. Harper sighed, bringing me back to the present. Her hands were trembling slightly as she adjusted the paper on her desk.
âWe all should have done more. But you have to understand, Marissa. This town thrives on looking the other way.â
Her words stung, but they were true. This town had always been a master of denial from the time I was a child.
As I left the school, I bumped into an old friend, Jackson. He looked worse for wear, the years marked on his face with age.
