“I’m sorry.”
Katrina was the new girl that year. She moved to their small town from Florida, bringing with her the smell of saltwater and a laugh that sounded like wind chimes in a storm. Laura, quiet and studious with a galaxy of freckles across her nose, fell in love the way only an eleven-year-old can—completely, without vocabulary, and with absolute terror. lauraloveskatrina
Laura laughed too loudly. “It’s a nice name.” “I’m sorry
Laura was accepted to a college three states away. She packed her room in cardboard boxes, erasing herself from the house where she’d grown up. On the last night, she walked to the oak tree behind the football field. The bark had grown over most of the carving, but she could still make out the K and the L , wound together like vines. Laura laughed too loudly
By senior year, Laura had stopped writing it. The phrase felt too heavy, too raw. She’d accepted that some loves were meant to stay on the underside of desks—invisible, permanent, but never touched. Katrina had started dating a boy named Mike who played lacrosse and didn’t know how to spell “algebra.”
“Looking for you.” Katrina walked closer. “Mike and I broke up.”