I hate being alone, and I hate that I'm experiencing my first heartbreak by someone who was never officially mine.
When I went to the lighthouse the day after Dean left, I found another Post-it note. The paper was blue and written in bold black letters.
Don't forget me.
As if I ever could. I'll never forget the person who made me feel more alive than I've ever been and made me feel limitless.
Everyone says the sky's the limit, but not Dean.
He's never once limited me.
I had hoped to find more Post-it notes, hoping that he had them hidden around, a reminder that he was still with me, but there was nothing else. I searched everywhere, and there were no notes.
I tried to talk to him a few times when I'd overheard him speaking with his parents, but I wasn't able to.
He was here one minute, then gone the next. It didn't help that both of our parents were always working or at the club more than usual.
Without Spencer and Dean here, I didn't realize how quiet and empty my house could be.
It's been two months, but it feels like yesterday.
Two weeks ago, I did a bad thing, and no one is here to even yell at me for it.
For the first time in my fifteen years of life, I stole.
Since I don't have my driver's license, I rode my bike to the corner store. The teenage clerk was too busy reading his comic book to even notice me when I entered or left. He also didn't notice when I grabbed the pink and white box from the shelf, shoved it down my sweater, and ran out.
I'd been sweating and shaking in fear the entire bike ride home, looking behind me every two seconds, convinced that I'd see flashing red and blue lights, but nothing happened. I made it home without being arrested and thrown into a cold jail cell for being a thief.
Just in case I was on the FBI's most wanted list for stealing, I laid low for a few days. I stayed home, telling Mom that I was sick when she tried to get me out of the house for school shopping. If the police came for me, I had hoped I'd be able to give the stolen item back in exchange for my freedom, so I didn't even use what I stole. I kept the sealed box wrapped in clothes and hidden in the back of my closet.
It's been two weeks since that day, and since I'm not in jail, I'll consider it now safe to use what I stole. That thought is on my mind as I grab the box from my closet and run into the bathroom with it hidden under my shirt.
Just in case Mom came into my room, I had to keep it hidden.
That's where I am now. Locked in my bathroom, anxiously waiting for the YouTube video to load. When I open the box, I read over the instructions twelve times but want to make sure I use it correctly, so I look up a video for reassurance.
Three videos and two hours later, I finally feel ready to do it myself.
With shaky fingers, I manage to slide my pajama shorts down my legs, sit on the toilet, and position the white stick between my legs.
After I pee directly on the fabric tip, I replace the cap and set the stick on the counter while I wash my hands and busy myself for the longest two minutes of my life.
When the timer beeps, my heart stops.
I hold the stick with shaky fingers and pray that the two bright pink lines are only my imagination. But I'm not that lucky. Since there are two tests in the box, I take the second one, convinced that the first one is a false positive.
Two tests. Both positive. They are correct.
I'm pregnant.
The first thing I do is call Spencer, and the second I hear her voice, the tears start. I'm barely able to get out what I need to say, but somehow, she can piece it together through my broken sobs.
She lets me cry to her as I lie on the bathroom floor in the fetal position, one hand on my flat stomach, the other hand holding my phone so tightly that my knuckles turn white.
This can't be happening.
I can't be pregnant.