I stepped past the yellow warning tape, my breath catching in my throat.

 

The wind carried the scent of burnt wood, of ashes—of everything I had lost.

My house—or what was left of it—stood before me like the skeleton of a past life.

​

Philip hesitated behind me.

I could feel his eyes on my back, silently pleading for me to be careful, to stop, to not go too deep into the ruins. But I couldn’t stop. Not now.

​

My feet moved on their own, crunching over the blackened debris. Every step unleashed a fresh wave of memories—Dad’s laughter from the living room, Mom’s voice calling us for dinner, Lisa’s excited chatter about her latest painting. Gone. All of it.

​

Then my gaze landed on something half-buried in the soot.

​

I knelt down, brushing away the ash with trembling fingers. It was a drawing—my drawing.

​

My chest tightened as I took it in:

 

Lisa and me, side by side, our arms linked. Mom and Dad stood on either side of us, making a heart with their hands.

 

A frozen moment of happiness, untouched by time. The edges were burnt, curling inward, but the faces—our faces—remained intact.

Something warm slid down my cheek. A single tear landed on the paper, smudging one of the lines.

Pain.

Anger.

Guilt.

​

It all surged at once—raw and unrelenting.

​

Before I realized what I was doing, my hands clenched around the artwork. My fingers tightened, ready to rip it apart—to destroy this reminder of what I could never have again.

​

But before I could tear the paper, strong hands gripped mine.

​

“Why would you do this?” Philip’s voice was gentle, yet firm.

​

I swallowed hard, my throat burning.

 

“I hate this,” I whispered, my voice shaking. “I hate that this had to happen to me.

 

At eighteen, Philip! Eighteen! I shouldn’t have followed Brenda to the park that day. I should have been here. I should have burned with them.” My breath escaped in a sob. “At least then, we’d still be together.”

​

Philip exhaled sharply, his grip tightening.

 

“Don’t say that, Stacy.”

​

I turned my face away, jaw clenched. “Then tell me why, Philip. Why me? Why am I the one left behind?”

​

He didn’t answer right away. When I finally looked up, I saw it—his own pain, his own grief. His eyes shimmered, his lips pressed into a thin line as if holding something back.

​

Then, to my shock, a tear slipped down his cheek.

​

Philip never cried.

​

I stared at him, my heart aching in a way I couldn’t explain. My hands moved on their own as I reached up and wiped the tear away.

​

He let out a shaky breath. “Look, Stacy… you’re going to be okay. I’m going to be okay. In fact, we’re going to be okay.”

​

I didn’t respond, but when he pulled me into a hug, I didn’t pull away.

​

“Let’s go home,” he murmured.

​

I nodded, letting him lead me back to the car. But as we drove away, I glanced back one last time at the ruins—at the life I’d lost, and the future I wasn’t sure how to face.

​