They miss you. They might have even been your friends.
I grab Jackson’s shoulder and pull him away, mumbling that I have to steal him away for something. Jackson is shaking, and I wrap my arm around his shoulders. Everyone quiets. They watch us walk toward the building, and they must be confused as hell, possibly mistaking my friendship for intimacy—but the only thing I care about is making sure Jackson doesn’t collapse, especially not before we go into your room to pack up your belongings. At least we’ve figured out a way to turn my running away into something constructive. Even my parents approve. We have to decide what’s okay for Jackson to keep and what should be sent back to your family.
Jackson leads me through the halls. The endless doors are identical, except for some with the occasional flyer or decoration, but Jackson never loses his way. There are still times where I get confused getting home if I go a different route or get too lost in my head or whatever song I’m listening to. But Jackson could probably find his way to your room blindfolded. I know it’s West 10 from all the mail I sent you—but if I’d somehow forgotten and was here without Jackson, it would’ve been easy to figure out by what’s outside: bouquets of flowers, candles, and mourning notes taped to the door.
The lump returns. I can’t read what people say about you; it hurts too much. Jackson and I aren’t the only ones hurting. I don’t know when you gave Jackson a key to your room, but he unlocks it and lets us in, and we’re careful to step over the flowers.
“Here we are.” Jackson’s voice is shaky. “It feels like a ghost town.”
I only know this room through photos you and Jackson posted on social media at the beginning of this semester because you were celebrating being roommate-free for sophomore year. On your desk is your laptop, your iPhone dock-slash-charging station, the pirate bobblehead and coloring books I sent you in my first and last care package, and a Star Wars mug with pens inside. The single bed is unmade. It’s so small, and whenever Jackson slept over, you two must’ve been forced to really push up against each other so no one fell off the edge. I have no idea when you and Jackson had sex for the first time, but the first time you casually mentioned it to me was a couple of months after you were already dating him, a little joke as if you were testing the waters to see if I would laugh. I did, but I knew you could tell it hurt me, because you never brought it up again. Either that or you and Jackson stopped having sex, which, let’s be real . . . I know you.
“I’ll be back in a minute. I’m going to go get a couple of boxes,” Jackson says softly, leaving me alone.
I hate that you’re not resting in that bed right now, asleep, or with your headphones, listening to a song you would recommend to me. I go to your desk and pick up the pirate bobblehead. I flick his cutlass, watching him shake his head around and smiling the biggest smile. It’s as if he’s the sole surviving pirate who didn’t get infected by the zombie virus, who’s now in possession of maps to everyone else’s buried treasures, setting sail to collect them all. I keep flicking and flicking until Jackson returns.
“Do you care if . . . do you care if I keep this pirate?” I ask him. I know I got it for you, but I don’t know if Jackson has a connection to it too; weeks ago I wouldn’t have even asked.
“That’s yours,” Jackson says, setting down some boxes.
“Thanks. Theo and I had this ongoing joke about pirates.” I sit down on the bed, still flicking away in twos.
“The zombie-pirate apocalypse, right? He told me about it.”
The pirate turns me into a kid—a crying, confused kid. Jackson sits beside me, wrapping his arm around my shoulder. I bounce the pirate across my leg, like he’s walking the plank, and send him diving into the ocean, into Jackson’s lap. Jackson winces and laughs a little while pulling me closer. It’s unsettling how nice the body contact is. I wonder if he’s feeling the same way. I shift a little, hoping to burrow into his side a little more closely, but he lets go of me completely, possibly mistaking my movement for discomfort.
Maybe he’s not feeling the same comfort I was. Maybe I was pushing myself past a line I shouldn’t be crossing.
We work on packing your room up. Jackson packs away shirts and jeans I don’t recognize into one box; I clear out your desk and drop it all into the second box. It’s a task that takes a little less than twenty minutes and no more than two boxes.
I’m still crying a little when we’re done. I can’t believe your entire life out here could be stored away in two boxes.