My childhood bedroom looks like a magazine cut out from a ’04 Seventeen magazine. Limited is the best way to describe a town whose economy weighs solely on a lumber mill and a mall that isn’t even within the town borders. At least this means everyone my age has a room crafted from thrift-store finds, furniture old enough to be cheap but not antique enough to be interesting. The left corner, which consists of a violently pink dresser beneath my favorite Nirvana poster, is the first thing I see when I wake up on the first day of my new life.

At least five orange medicine containers stand still on my nightstand, each one entirely empty. I squint at the labels and read their specific medications, from acetaminophen to mucinex. No wonder I didn’t die. Although this is my first time, failed suicide attempts are somehow more embarrassing than being depressed to begin with. You’re forced to return straight back into the depression, I mean where else would you go?

My parents both work graveyard shifts, meaning they’ll be home in a couple of hours and find their only daughter with a pounding migraine and a stomach full of weak medicine. The thought of having this conversation today, watching them blink themselves awake after working twelve hours straight and listening to their insincere concern when they barely know the first thing about mental health, is too much for me. Luckily for me, a plan was conceived in my mind long before last night’s failure.

I know exactly where the keys to my grandpa’s rotting ’57 Mustang is, as well as the rubber band that holds tight a hundred twenty dollar bills. Before I become the antagonist of my own story, it’s important to admit that I do kind of love my parents. I mean, I appreciate anyone who can slave away at a meaningless job just to live in a shitty house for thousands of boring days. It takes admirable strength to live like this. On the other side of this appreciation are the facts, which include my birth being an accident, my parents’ growing hatred for each other, and the pure shit that is my hometown. To me, this validates stealing my parents’ rainy day fund and rusting antique car; I can right their wrongs by giving myself a new life.

We used to have a TV before my father bashed the screen in with his pure, unfiltered beta-male rage. In the few years of having that TV, I spent as much time as I could watching it. I knew hypothetically that there were different places, with different ways of living, out there. But it wasn’t until I started investing all of my time in watching TV that I finally found the place I wanted to live. Some show about surfers with blonde hair and dramatic romances taught me everything I needed to know about California. Even if I was just a kid when my infatuation with the west coast emerged, it was the most consistent dream I had. 

Sitting with the keys in the ignition, with a bag of clothes and two thousand dollars on the passenger seat, I know exactly where I’m going.

❃

As my eyes break open the crust formed on my eyelids overnight, I take in the frosty windshield and soreness of my body. I have no recollection of how far I drove or when I pulled over to sleep. Even the doors of the car are unlocked, but the cash and I are untouched. In search of the time, I rip all the clothes out of my bag looking for my phone. As frustration rises in my body, warming my fingers and toes, I look under the carseats and in the glove compartment for it. The realization that I left my phone at home actually brings me more peace than I anticipated; it’s probably for the best that my parents and Joselyn can’t get in touch with me.

A deep breathing technique a school counselor taught me during my last mental breakdown is on my mind when the flash of a cop’s lights reflect in my rearview mirror. How am I already in trouble? If he tries to bring me home I’ll have to commit a worse crime than whatever he’s currently concerned about.

Silent and still, I watch him park behind me and ready himself. He double-checks his equipment, one hand on a flashlight and the other on his gun as he climbs out and heads in my direction. I imagine how foolish he’ll feel when he sees how prepared he made himself to pull a gun on a twenty-year-old girl, but I try not to audibly laugh. Beside my window now, he shines his flashlight into the car. Is he allowed to immediately blind someone that isn’t even aware of their wrongdoings? I rub my eyes as if I can wipe off the dots of black left behind by the brightness. Once my vision finally returns, I move my left hand to roll down the window, but just like that he’s already leaving. I wait, expecting him to write me a ticket, but instead I watch him drive off onto the highway beyond me. I decide not to dwell on his conclusion that, even though I’ve done nothing wrong, I’m somehow undeserving of even one word. 

Without my phone or even an outdated paper map, the only thing to do is follow any sign that has the word west. Time is infinite for an off-the-grid runaway. My parents could have the cops running the license of this car, sure, but they don’t know about my California dreaming. They’ll probably steer the cops north of our town towards New York City, assuming that I’m just missing Joselyn. Just as clueless as they are about California, they have no idea how little I miss Joselyn. They’d never guess that I actually despise her, yet another reason west is the best direction to drive.

Seventy miles of uninterrupted driving makes minutes feel as long as hours and as short as seconds at the same exact time. Finally I’ve found a reason to miss my parents, envisioning the times when I’d fall in and out of sleep in the backseat. Seeing the first rest stop on this stretch of highway incites an impulsive lane switch to the short exit, cars honking at me as I hope for my favorite snacks to be in these vending machines.

My knees and elbows crack loudly as I reach for the sky then the ground. On the way to the vending machines I pick up a stray plastic bag, not because I care about litter but to fill it with snacks like a sadder version of trick-or-treating. They don’t have Oreos or Skittles, my top two favorite snacks, but I can deal with Snickers, Cheetos, and chocolate chip cookies. After stretching and snack collecting, the last form of relief this rest stop offers is emptying my bladder. 

The stall I choose is graffitied like my high school bathrooms, but with very different words. As opposed to crushes’ names and song lyrics, these stalls contain maps to glory holes and nameless phone numbers. I imagine the evolution of a bathroom stall writer, the experiences that shape their words as they graduate from angsty teenager to lost adult. It doesn’t occur to me that I’m done peeing and now only loitering until the legs of a little girl pass my stall. The peace of bathroom reading disperses inevitably when even just one person joins me. I wash my hands with more care than normal, scrubbing the dirt from under my nails because I’m not interested in my appearance invoking questions from strangers.

The little girl joins me soon after flushing, clearly not a consumer of fine literature. I allow myself a glance or two, curiosity drawn from her mature outfit and lack of guardians. As soon as our eyes meet I return to self-analysis, pulling a stray leaf from my hair and smoothing out my split ends.

Unlike me, this little girl finds no shame in observing others. She can barely take her eyes off me, even as she rubs the soap into her hands. I maintain eye contact with the mirror, trying to concentrate on making myself appear like a well-traveled young adult rather than a runaway teenager. 

“Who are you?” the little girl asks. When I don’t reply immediately, she offers her own answer, “I’m Crystal. I’m twelve, so I’m the youngest professional psychic in Utah. I have an office and everything.”

I am not well versed in conversation with children. Being the only child of parents excommunicated by their own families, the youngest people I’m used to talking to are the ones I went to school with. At this point school feels like it can’t be anything more than a dream I had a long time ago, making talking to Crystal uncharted territory.

“That’s really cool,” I say. “I’m Grey. I’m twenty, and I’m-” c’mon, I can do this, “the first person in my family to leave my hometown. Which is definitely not as interesting as being the youngest professional psychic in Utah.” 

“Are your parents still alive? Is that why you’re the first to leave your home?” Crystal has finished washing her hands, and I realize I have too, but we are both standing facing the sinks as if there’s anything left to do. 

“Uh, yeah, I guess they’re probably wondering where I am by now,” I reply, trying to hide my confusion due to her choice of questions. “This is the first time I’ve ever left home without saying anything, so they’re probably looking for me everywhere.” 

Crystal raises an eyebrow, squinting at me as if I’m suddenly the confusing one. Her mouth opens slightly, words almost leaving it, but then she closes it again. What does the young psychic see in me? It seems like a silly thought, reminding me of the excessive amount of money my mother used to spend on tarot card readers and astrologers. There’s no way she knows something about my past or my future, she’s just a fantastic actor. I’m sure my mom would love to buy a reading from her.

As soon as I think it’s a good time to leave, Crystals says, “Where are you going?” Of all the people to interrogate me, a little girl alone in a rest stop bathroom is an option that never would’ve crossed my mind. Even a cop was less curious about me.

“I’m moving to California so I can start enjoying my life.” My honesty is surprising me. In the hours of driving I’ve already done, I’ve fabricated all the lies I will tell people during this trip. I’m a college student on vacation, one year into my art history degree at a college with a name no one would recognize. Maybe I’d say I was on my way to visit my long-distance partner. The options are limitless, yet Crystal has drained anything outside of reality from this bathroom. Here is my truth, dripping out of me like a faulty faucet. “Maybe I’ll learn to surf, I’ve always thought that would be a cool hobby.”

Finally Crystal adverts her eyes from me, staring blankly at the drain of the nearest sink, the suds her hands made still bubbling down. Quieter now, she continues, “So you like it here? You enjoy life?”

At least a little, I must give in to the possibility of her psychic powers. She could’ve had a vision of my failed suicide attempt, maybe she saw the empty medicine containers, resulting in such an ominous question. Regardless, I’m technically the grown up in this conversation so I have no right to implore topics too dark for a twelve-year-old.

“Yeah, no, of course, life is great, you know, so much to do and see,” the first lie of our conversation tripping over my lips on its way out. 

Fortunately, a woman I assume to be Crystal’s mother swings the door open. I’m grateful that she ignores me as she says sternly to Crystal, “What is taking you so long? We were supposed to get back on the road fifteen minutes ago! Come on.” As quickly as she comes she leaves, allowing Crystal and I time to say goodbye.

“Good luck on your trip,” Crystal says, moving towards the door.

“Wait!” I say unexpectedly, holding Crystal and I still in this moment. “Any psychic advice for me?” It was supposed to come across as playful, proof that I can hold conversations with children, but instead the tone is closer to desperate.

“In your new life, try to enjoy your time on the other side.”

❃

Crystal’s last words haunt me for the next hundred miles. From not having my phone to strange interactions with a kid and a cop, and everything in between, the most common feeling I’ve had on this trip has been frustration. How far along in my adolescence did I convert to cynicism? I try to locate the memory that changed me, but instead various others fill my head on the barren, flat highway.

The day Joselyn and I met. Two outliers fitting together like puzzle pieces, Joselyn being the only non-white kid and me being the only mentally ill kid in our entire school. We were bound together like a gravitational pull, no need to ask one another if we were friends because we just naturally were. 

My parents throwing things at one another in the living room when Joselyn was over. Her arms, as small as they were, wrapped around my arms and torso as if she was the only thing holding me to this earth. It turned into our first sleepover, although sleep had no part in our night. We built a fort beside my bed and talked about normal middle school things, though we still felt so different.

Joselyn asking me to prom because she knew I wouldn’t go. A paper mache poster with the question and a box of donuts we would share at our bus stop on the way home. She tried to convince me that even in a close-minded town like ours, we still needed something to look forward to. I wish it worked.

Our last sleepover, only two weeks ago. The way the night started like any other, holding each other in my bed despite a deafening truth weighing on us. That morning Joselyn told me about her unexpected acceptance into New York University. I was an accomplice in her application, confidently and ignorantly assuring her that she would get in. But when she did get in, I melted into the dark side of the moon. I could barely talk to her, but with or without words she showed up for our final sleepover anyways. She built us a fort exactly like our first one as I laid in a fetal position on my bed. She dragged my limp, apathetic body into the fort and told me there was something else she needed to tell me. I still can’t forget the dread of wondering how this could possibly get any worse.

Instead, she said, “I’m in love with you, Grey. Maybe I always have been, but I’m sure of it right now. I know that it will be hard over the next four years, but you’re everything I want.” Knowing I wouldn’t know how to respond, she kissed me. I kissed her back until the only thing that made us different crept out of my heart and into our sacred moment.

“Have you ever considered I don’t feel the same way about you?” 

In spite of my impending self-destruction and the pain I served with so little caution, we still slept in each other’s arms as though we were still six years old with our entire life before us.

I am pulled back into the present as my foot slams on the break out of necessity, just barely avoiding what could’ve been a fatal accident. The drivers around me recite profanities like a grocery list, but I’m still hovering between now and my memory. I can feel the tears dried to my cheeks, meaning I was lost in my mind long enough to cry and stop crying before even noticing. It’s time to stop driving.

The first motel I encounter is as shitty as they come but I’m in no position to be picky. I hover in the lobby, waiting for the man at the desk to notice me, but his book is obviously riveting. Never once does he acknowledge my existence, bent so far over into his reading that even I’m concerned for his posture. 

“Um, excuse me?” I say. “I’m trying to get a room for just one night.”

Nothing besides another turn of a page. Not aloud, but internally I promised Crystal that I’d try to have a good time on my trip and at least most of the days in my future Californian life. Respecting this promise, I decide to release my anger of yet again being completely ignored. My conscience has never been completely clean, so I find no difficulty in snatching a room key when the guy walks into the backroom. 

Dinner is my plastic bag of snacks, which isn’t much different from dinner back home. Even with new scenery, I am drowning in the memory of Joselyn and I’s last sleepover. I haven’t talked to her since, but she knows me well enough to give me space even if the space is weeks long. I finally feel the urge to call her, hear her voice and even consume her stories of life outside our hometown. At least I have stories to tell too. Convenience of never having to remember her phone number, always being able to just press the call button on my phone, is now a pain in my ass. I substitute what would’ve been a healing conversation with a handwritten letter using the motel branded notepad and pen.

Dear Joselyn,

I miss you. Do you like New York? What does it feel like going from a few thousand to millions of neighbors? I’ve been thinking about the last time I saw you. Guess what? I decided to drive to California. Well, actually I’m moving to California, but there really isn’t a plan yet. Would you want to come visit me? I’m sure you’re always busy with homework and parties, but when I buy a new phone and find your number we should talk. Sometimes I just talk to you in my head, but your voice would be better. Did you forget what my handwriting looks like yet? Fuck, I didn’t realize how hard it is to write a letter. 

❃

I’ve lost count of the miles. I need some help with this goal of enjoying myself, the continuous frustrations reminding me of how hard it is to have fun on my own. So when a handmade, wooden sign advertises an authentic pioneer house that was once invaded by aliens coming up in three miles, I take the exit. A rubble road carries my car to a dirt parking lot. The attraction really is just one old wooden house. Sitting at a card table covered with a tablecloth sits a person selling tickets. 

“How do you know aliens invaded this house?” I struggle with hiding my skepticism, but that seems like no issue to this person.

“There are trace amounts of metals found only in space around the perimeter,” they say, a smile so big only true passion could create it. “In addition, the whereabouts of the family who owned it is still an unsolved mystery to this day. I’m Oliver, by the way. And you are?”

“I’m Grey,” I reply while holding my sight on the house. “I don’t know if I believe in this kind of stuff, I just needed a break from driving on that horrible highway.”

Oliver seems delighted by company, pulling out a folded chair for me to sit. More engaged in our conversation than me, they reply, “Yeah, that’s one long road you’re traveling on. You won’t see one building for at least another fifty miles. Besides this one, of course! And lucky for you, this is the most interesting building around.”

“How did you become an expert on a mystery that’s hundreds of years old?” I ask, prolonging the speech they clearly can’t wait to give me. Oliver pulls out a brown paper bag, informing me it’s lunch time which is helpful with my inability to track time. The contents include a sandwich cut in half diagonally, a bag of chips, and a bottle of apple juice. They have to be around forty, but they’re satisfied with a lunch normally eaten by a child. I wonder if Oliver is more of a mystery than this house.

“Well, I was a car salesman like my ‘pa,” Oliver replies, revealing their thick, blended American accent. “One day on the way home from work, I saw that same sign that brought you here. There was this old, old man sitting in this very seat. I asked him to tell me the whole story and when he finished, I asked him to hire me so he could retire. Best decision of my life. If no one comes, I’m in the solitude of one of America’s finest mysteries. If even one person shows up, I get to tell a great story!”

“I wish I was as passionate about something as you are about this house,” I say, nearly interrupted by the rumble of my emptying stomach. 

“Here you go,” Oliver says without hesitation, handing me half of their sandwich and placing some chips on a napkin. “I’ve got two little ones, so I’m used to sharing every meal. Anyways, you’ll find your thing. Is that where you’re headed, in search of your thing?”

“I guess so.” I eat my half of Oliver’s lunch much quicker than they do. My hunger subsiding, I find more patience in myself. “Okay, okay, I’m ready for the story now.” 

One cheek full of sandwich, they begin, “This home was owned by a family of pioneers that decided to separate from their traveling group. The group was looking for California, but the Morello family thought the wheat fields and oak trees around us were too beautiful to walk away from. This house was handbuilt by Mr. and Mrs. Morello and their three youngsters. For years they found the peace they’d been searching for. Every harvest time was bountiful and their sturdy home kept them warm in the winter. They even ended up having two more healthy babies! Until one summer, that is. According to the diary of Mr. Morello himself, green light filled their house in the early morning, just a few hours before they woke up for the day. Back then, there were no cautionary tales about extraterrestrial life forms like there are now. So the whole Morello family went outside to investigate the mysterious green light. No one knows what happened next. The empty house stood undiscovered for nearly fifty years before someone found it. All that was left was the diary entry about green light, trace amounts of space metal, and the remnants of a family that would never be found.”

The various tones of Oliver’s story tell me they’ve had plenty of visitors to practice on. I try to imagine myself finding a story amazing enough to revolve my life around, but nothing comes to mind. Half out of courtesy and half sincerely, I say, “That’s a great story.”

“Isn’t it?”

Oliver and the surrounding landscape tell another story. Though the trees are vastly distant from one another, they are bigger than any trees I’ve seen back east. There are no humans around for miles, besides the people speeding east or west at eighty miles per hour. Oliver’s drive here must take at least a half an hour, but I can see him grinning the whole ride. With miles of decaying wheat fields and fruitless branches around us, I can’t shake the feeling that this is just any other abandoned house. Dawning on me like the sun over the horizon, it finally occurs to me that the magic here has nothing to do with the story and everything to do with one person’s love of the unknown. Their favorite story in the whole world, or at least I assume it is, is only half-written. They’ve practiced tones and sentences for a legend that leaves more questions than answers. Did I ever consider loving the unknown even once in my past life? I wanted to know the unknown so badly I blindsided the people closest to me to find it, and even now I’m not certain that I’ll love what I find.

A minivan pulls into the dirt parking lot behind us. Oliver doesn’t look over like I do. They have no need to rush an introduction, basking in the unconditional love they’ve found for at least this unknown. I expect a family to come out, but instead it’s a group of men probably in their late twenties. They’ve got hiking gear on and expensive cameras worn like necklaces. For the first few minutes of their arrival, they stare at the house while they crack sarcastic jokes at the mystery’s expense and laugh. Only when they see me does each and every one of their demeanors change. Most of what they’ve been saying is inaudible to me from this distance, but one comment comes out perfectly clear.

Pointing directly at me, one of them says, “Dude, fucking look, this place really is haunted.”

It’s time for me to acknowledge there’s a big difference between trying to have a good time and putting up with shit that just doesn’t feel good. I don’t know why it bothers me, for all I know I might just be the palest person in a hundred mile radius. I don’t question my feelings though, instead I leave Oliver with a twenty dollar bill from my stack and a, “Thank you,” before heading back to the highway.

❃

A calmness drifts over my being as the word California finally appears on the signs I’ve followed blindly. I’m nearly there. A rare consideration crosses my mind; wouldn’t it be nice to look good in my new life? I’ve never minded my preference for baggy jeans and hoodies because there are so many other ways I’ve felt uncomfortable and my choice of clothing was not going on that list. After seeing California on highway signs and stewing in the enlightenment given to me by Crystal and Oliver, though, I decide my new life can handle more change.

Outlet malls have the same energy as cookie cutter homes, but I’m stretching my mind to be more flexible just like I would for my body. I settle for a store inspired by west coast skater boys because even if the clothes remain overpriced, at least I like the way they look. Forcing myself to walk past the hoodies and oversized jeans, I wander through the more feminine section. Obviously I’m giving the skirts and crop tops dirty looks, because my facial expressions seems to invite advice.

“You should try black skinny jeans,” they say, freely turning me around to view a more appealing rack of clothes. “You can wear anything with these, but I’m thinking this is probably your style.” Handing me a loose Nirvana shirt, I’m almost relieved to be under the guidance of a more aware shopper.

“I don’t work here, to be honest, I just thought you could use some help. I’m Taylor.” 

When I was sitting in the garage, talking myself into seriously doing this trip, meeting people was actually on my list of reasons not to go. And here I am, reciting my name to yet another new friend, almost in awe of my ability to attract beautiful strangers.

“Hi Taylor, I’m Grey.” Not in an attempt to end the conversation but rather to focus on my goal of buying the first outfit of my new life, I walk towards the fitting rooms. 

“Okay, so not to be weird, but can I come in with you?” Taylor says, following my steps in sync. “Really, I’m not a creep or anything, I’m just offering an honest opinion of the clothes you try on.”

“Yeah, sure.” A few days ago a situation like this would make me uncomfortable, but now I feel an honest indifference to the unknown happenings that follow me.

Taylor sits on the bench while I remove my old, dirty clothes and redress with new, expensive ones. An intrusive thought emerges in the form of a memory where Joselyn sat at the bench and gave her opinions on my outfits. I let it run its course, flinching only slightly when her face visualizes and taking a deep breath as soon as it disappears.

“Okay, it looks great and all, but I think we can do better, right? I mean, in all honesty you look like every boy I’ve seen skating at the Santa Monica pier.” Her opinion reminds me to add that location to my currently empty list of places to visit.

“So how do we fix that? How can I look more like, I don’t know, a girl who just drove across the country to impulsively move to California?” There it is again, that easy truthfulness but this time with less unease.

“Are you serious?” Taylor says, their widening eyes making me feel all interesting and significant.

“Yeah that’s been the last week of my life, so now I need an outfit before I crossover into the holy land.”

A movie-like montage with a horrible Top 40 soundtrack sponsored by the store speakers films itself. Taylor collects clothes while I sit, awaiting my mystery box of fashion help. At some point she joins me, painting my face with blush when our lack of clothing overlaps in the one person fitting room. Relating to a single divorcee, I am reminded of my innately human ability to be attracted to someone. Joselyn’s face doesn’t appear in my mind again. There is only this moment, there is only Taylor.

Only one consequence of letting Taylor help me, which is the unplanned wad of cash moving from my bag to the cashier’s register. Worth it, I reason, since I would’ve needed more than one outfit for a lifetime of beaches and relaxation anyways.

Outside the store, Taylor invites me to dinner. My final destination will be there tomorrow, so I follow her to burgers and fries. Dinner is served on a bench by a lake, picnics and skateboards radiating life all around. Comfortable in our silence, we finish our food listening to the boat manufactured waves and the adolescent taunts as fourteen-year-olds figure themselves out. The only question left in my mind, where anxiety once ruled every consideration, is why didn’t I do this trip sooner?

“So, do you have a girlfriend or boyfriend or genderless partner?” Taylor asks, breaking the silence when our paper plates are empty and neatly stacked between us.

“Definitely not,” I tell her. “If I did, I don’t think they’d be very happy about my cross-country disappearing act.”

She laughs, “Yeah, that’s probably true. I can’t imagine doing what you’re doing, all alone. For most of my life I’ve felt like I’ll lose my mind if there isn’t someone next to me.”

“Is that why you joined my shopping trip?”

Before she answers, the young teenagers rush past us creating a wave of heat, and Taylor waits for our laughter to fade before telling me, “Actually, I was with my friends today. I ditched them when I saw you.”

“Oh, wow, so they’re probably more used to you disappearing than my friend is.” 

“You only have one friend?” Taylor says. The tree branches above us rustle knowingly, a clear sign of the shifting energy between us. Normally I’d take time to think of my answer, but I have nothing to lose anymore.

“To be fair, I’m from a small town and she’s the only cool person in the entire place,” I say, trying to retain my light-hearted tone although my confidence is shifting beneath me. “She’s my best friend, actually, so it’s more like why have many friends when you can have one really good one, you know?”

“Were you always just friends?” she says, nudging my arm. “Or did you ever have one of those, ‘Oops, I’m in love with you,’ sleepovers?” 

Just words from someone who barely knows me, nothing more and nothing less. Until Joselyn’s face returns, this time in the exact moment I pretended I wasn’t in love with her. Why did four little years seem like the end of the world just weeks ago? Of course, I’m discrediting every moment that came before and the way they weakened me beyond repair. The reality of my lifetime of depression sticks like tar to my lungs. Genetic or developed young, it wouldn’t matter either way. Taylor is just referencing a universal human experience, but my old perspectives flee my mind and blame her for everything. 

Even without responding, she is staring at me in pure horror. How does she already know the darkest parts of me are escaping past my newly found enlightenment? I return to the school counselor’s breathing techniques, maybe the only helpful thing they ever gave me. The darkness returns to its respective space in my mind, allowing me to save the moment before I push Taylor away without reason.

“Grey…” Her voice shakes. 

“I’m sorry, okay? I don’t handle my emotions well. I don’t know how you can see right through me, but I’m back. Sorry for ruining the moment.”

“No, Grey, listen…” she says. I listen, waiting for her to say anything at all, but her eyes have fallen to the ground. As her mind runs, I can’t imagine a single thought that could be in there. Somehow, though, complete strangers have figured out my most intimate details.

She clears her throat before saying, “Grey, I don’t want to scare you. I mean, okay, I’m scared but please don’t do anything impulsive when I say this. Oh God, how did it happen? Let me think. I asked you about having a sleepover, right? Your face changed, but it’s not just that. You… I mean you literally disappeared.”

“What?” is the only word to say.

“This isn’t a joke, I’m being absolutely serious right now. You started thinking about whatever it was you were thinking about and, just like that, you were gone. I was alone on this bench. I just stared at where you were sitting. I can’t even wrap my mind around it. And then I watched you slowly, fading from nothing back to you sitting here now.”

“Okay… so…” 

“So, so… I just don’t see how you could actually be alive. I read this book when I was a kid once about ghosts. It said that they can appear real to whoever they want to be seen by. I know it sounds crazy but I just saw it happen. Grey, is there any way you could’ve possibly died on your way here?”

Void of feelings, memories, anything that once made me human, I am left working backwards. I wasn’t murdered by the group of hikers, or Oliver, or the motel employee, or the cop. The closest I got to a car accident was when I had to slam on my breaks, but I stopped. No choking or allergies or poison. No, how could I have died during my trip? Until I remember the night before. Five days and thousands of miles later, I am forced to accept that my suicide was succesful.

As the veil of denial lifts, I can now see through my hands, legs, and entire body to whatever real is beneath it. I was never ignored, I just wasn’t there. Before Taylor, the hikers saw me for what I really am. Before the hikers, Crystal kept my own secret from me. Even in the unraveling acceptance of my death, I can’t stand to let it all end like this. Letting myself disappear from Taylor’s vision, I walk empty handed to my car.

❃

It only takes me a few hours to finish what I started. There is plenty of parking and barely any people on an unnamed Californian beach during sunset. I leave everything material in the car, even the keys dangling from the ignition. These things can no longer save me. The perfect spot is where I press my weightless body into the sand, right where the setting sun aligns with me.

On the last hundred miles of this road trip, I waited patiently for the truth to implode within me. I expected to fully disappear at any second, leaving an empty car rolling along a highway. My bodily movements still operating the car, I transcended to more hopeful theories. Maybe I could exist like this forever. I could rent a room from a landlord that would never be bothered by me. I could watch the sunset every evening and spend the night walking through the city now that my femininity could no longer make me a victim. Even in the daydreams, it felt like no way to exist. The scariest thought of all occurred just miles before my final destination was within sight. What if I didn’t kill myself? This trip would’ve changed everything for me. Still, I arrived.

Time for decisions is gone, I gave them away to the universe nearly a week ago. All that is left of a young woman named Grey is the complicated and confused energy force that once filled her, and now it sits alone on a beach. Now I can finally use Crystal’s advice, echoing in a more ghostly fashion than I managed all this time, “In your new life, try to enjoy your time on the other side.” The only thing left to do is follow it, into the ocean and beyond the horizon where I will become one of the infinite shades of the setting sun.

❃