Looking Ahead

The last slice of pizza was gone, the last giggle had faded into the quiet hum of the night, and the last stray popcorn kernel had been swept away. The air in my room, usually buzzing with the energy of a sleepover, now felt soft and settled, like a worn-out blanket. Katie’s mom had honked the car once, a cheerful little chirp that meant “time to go,” and Katie, all sleepy smiles and slightly rumpled hair, had hugged me tight. “See you Monday, Soph,” she’d whispered, her breath smelling faintly of the strawberry lip balm she’d slathered on before bed.

I watched from the doorway as she zipped up her sleeping bag, her favorite unicorn one, and wrestled it into her duffel bag. Her mom’s car pulled away, its taillights shrinking into red dots on the dark street, and then they were gone. The silence that followed felt big, not empty and sad, but full and peaceful. It was the kind of quiet that wraps around you after a really good day, a day that had started with a little bit of worry and ended with a whole lot of understanding.

I padded back into my room, the floorboards creaking softly under my bare feet. The remnants of our sleepover adventure were scattered around: the fort we’d built with extra blankets and pillows, now looking a little deflated, a pile of movie DVDs on the floor, and my journal, still open to the page where I’d scribbled “James?” in big, bubbly letters. I picked it up, tracing the letters with my finger. It felt like a lifetime ago that just thinking his name had made my stomach do flip-flops and my palms sweat.