The lights aren’t on, but I can see enough to find my way. The equipment is all still out, so I slip though the side gate and through the small space at the front of the batting cage. The bats are all hanging still from our practice this afternoon, and I know I’m not supposed to be in here, but goddamn do I need to hit something right now!

I flip the switch on the machine and it takes it a few seconds for the wheels to gain speed. It’s dark as hell, but in a few minutes, I should be able to see enough. I pull my phone out from my pocket and look at Rowe’s photo and name. I know I shouldn’t read it. I should just delete it or not look at it and write her back quickly, letting her know she sent me something meant for someone else.

Someone else.

Fuck! That’s the problem. There’s always going to be someone else.

I grab the wooden bat because I want to feel the sting in my hands. Sometimes I use it to warm up before games because it makes swinging metal even easier. But tonight I want to feel the pain and stress of the wood—to pull this feeling from my heart and push it into my hands.

Crack!

The vibration hurts like hell, and I step back and let the next two pitches smash into the hard plastic behind the plate. My eyes are starting to adjust, so I step back in and hit three more, swinging harder than I normally do, punishing the ball for everything I’m feeling. One more ball fires my way, and I swing and miss, which just pisses me off.

“Stupid goddamned machine!” I throw the bat across the cage and smack my hand against the emergency shut-off and the motor slows until the only thing I hear is my rapid breathing and the crickets in the grass.

I hold my phone in my lap while I slide down to sit with my back against the chain-link of the cage. My weight sends up a small puff of dirt when I hit the ground. I pull my knees up and pat the dust from the legs of my jeans and let out a tiny laugh at how futile it is. I’m filthy, and I just picked a fight with a decade-old pitching machine.

I’m slow at first, clicking the phone screen on and hovering my thumb over Rowe’s profile picture on Facebook. I don’t even have her number. I never asked, but she never gave it to me either. This is the only way I can contact her, other than holding her hostage in her own dorm room. And neither method was from her choosing. I sought her out on Facebook, and heaven gave me a break when they put us together on the same floor of Hayden Hall. But never, not once, did Rowe come for me.

I’m reading before I can stop myself, and I’m reading with anger in my heart. I’m not angry at Rowe, I’m angry at myself for falling for her—for falling for a girl who can’t let herself be mine to love.

Hi Josh.

Haven’t written in a week, lots to catch you up on. I told two more people about you—my roommates, Cass and Paige. I know, I know…but I was wrong about Paige. She’s actually pretty nice, once you get through all of that fake crap. I’ve been wrong about a lot. I didn’t think I could do this without you. But here I am, almost a month in, and I don’t want to go home, Josh. Please don’t take this the wrong way. I miss my parents, and there’s a part of me that wants to crawl back into the cocoon I lived in for two years, the one where I hid from the world because you’re no longer in it. There’s a reason I don’t go into your room when I visit your parents. At first, I thought it was because I couldn’t—because I was too afraid of hurting and seeing you unable to speak or move. But I don’t think that’s it anymore. I don’t come see you because I’m selfish. I’m selfish, Josh, and I feel so awful about it, but I am. I want to forget about you. I want to remember you on that last day, moments before that man walked into our lives with his gun, but I don’t want to remember you after. I don’t want to know what you look like now, because I don’t want that vision in my head making me feel guilty for being alive. And I want to be done with you. I am cold and callous even writing this, but oh god Josh, I want to be done with you. The more I think about it, the more I know we probably would have broken up by now anyway, because as good as you were, we were young, and the me I’m growing into wants to experience more in life. There’s this guy, and he’s all I can think about, and Josh I want to love him. I’m so close to giving in, and I think if I could just let myself, he would love me back. But I can’t, because you’re always there…in the way of my life. I’m probably just angry. And I’m sorry I’m taking this out on you tonight. But it’s not like you’ll write back or see any of it. I’m not writing you any more. Not because I don’t love you, because I always will. But because I’m letting you go. I let you go, Josh. Please…please let me go too.