Just Remember to Breathe (Thompson Sisters)

to ruin it. Even more afraid that he would. That I’d let myself get close to him again, and that I’d let him break my heart again.
    Last February… it was a nightmare. I’d cried myself to sleep every night. Tortured myself really.
    I was a mess.
    I got back to the dorm and let myself in, then sat down on my bed, my eyes turning to the bottom drawer of my bureau. Don’t do it, I thought. I’d packed everything away, when six weeks had gone by with no word from him, no response from him.
    Feeling like I was going to cry, feeling like a robot with no control over my own actions, I leaned forward and slid open the drawer.
    To a casual examination—for example a nosy-as-hell roommate—there were folded sweaters in the drawer.
    Underneath, however, was a box. I slid the box out of the drawer, sat it on the bed next to me, and opened it.
    On top was an eight-by-ten photo of me and Dylan. He was leaning on the grass on his side, head propped on his right arm. He wore a black trenchcoat and a white turtleneck, and he was smiling. I was curled up against his legs, facing him. In the photo our eyes are locked, faces close together, huge smiles on both of our faces.
    A tear ran down my face, looking at it. Angrily, I swiped it away, then set the photo to the side.
    Underneath the picture was a thick leather photo album.
    Inside was our own love story.
    There we were, together in Tel Aviv. Holding hands as we walked on the pier in Jaffa. Standing waist deep in the Mediterranean Sea, arms around each other.
    Sitting together on the tour bus. He was wearing the ridiculous kuffiyah he’d bought in Nazareth. I was wearing a light brown sweater, hair loose around my shoulders. Because he liked it down. His arm was around my shoulder.
    A whole series of the youth hostel in Ein Gedi near the Dead Sea… where we’d kissed for the first time.
    Someone took a picture of us together standing on the Golan Heights, the Sea of Galilee to our backs. He was standing behind me, arms around my waist, my head thrown back in a giant laugh.
    A series of greying photos taken in the photo booth at the bus station in San Francisco. He’d taken a Greyhound all the way from Atlanta to see me, the summer after his senior year. In the photos he was wearing a leather jacket and fedora, and we were kissing.
    Dried roses. They’d come on my nineteenth birthday, last fall, not long after he left for Afghanistan. It was the last thing I’d ever expected, to have flowers delivered from halfway around the world on my birthday.
    When Kelly walked in the room, I was curled up on my bed crying, surrounded by all the evidence of my stupid inability to let go.
    She got one look and said, “Oh, no. Alex, hun. You’ve got it bad.”
    “Oh, shit, I’m sorry Kelly.”
    “It’s okay, babe. Slide over.”
    I did, and she climbed into bed beside me and hugged me while I cried my eyes out.



CHAPTER FIVE

    Just remember to breathe (Alex)

    The alarm started ringing at an ungodly hour. As in before six in the morning. I hadn’t seen that early in the morning since high school, and I’d been perfectly happy that way.
    Kelly, across the room from me, muttered, “Oh my God, what the hell is that?” then started snoring again.
    At first, I rolled over and hit the snooze button. I closed my eyes, thinking I should just go back to sleep. My mind drifted, half unconscious, to a semi-dream.
    I was holding hands with Dylan, and it was the summer before my senior year of high school. I could feel the calluses on the tips of his fingers from guitar playing. We’d walked a quarter of the way out on the Golden Gate Bridge, staying close the entire time, and were looking down at the bay. His eyes were wide, dreamy, and we talked about our dreams of the future.
    We were struggling, because our dreams were… different. He was going to travel, and write. I was going to college, probably in New York. He was finished with high school, and planned on leaving the country within months. I had another year in San Francisco. We’d turned to each other, there on the bridge, and as the wind blew through our hair he gently kissed me.
    Dylan.
    Dylan.
    My eyes popped open. It was 5:56, and I was going to be late.
    I jerked out of bed, stumbled, and fell flat, catching myself at the last second. Heart beating rapidly, I threw open my top drawer and started throwing clothes, trying to find something to wear.
    “What are you doing?”
    Kelly asked, her voice slurred with