The Razr vibrates.
You flip it open.
“You’re really leaving?” you ask, even though you know the answer. The U-Haul is already half-packed. A futon mattress leans against a cardboard box marked KITCHEN – FRAGILE . Stay -2005-
The year is 2005. The air smells of rain on hot asphalt, cheap cherry lip gloss, and the faint, sweet burn of clove cigarettes. You’re seventeen, and you’re standing in the gravel driveway of a house you’ve only been to twice before. His name is Cole. He has shaggy brown hair that falls into his eyes and a carabiner clipped to his belt loop, holding keys to a Jeep he rebuilt himself. The Razr vibrates
But he doesn’t.
“Yeah. That’s the point.” He kicks a loose pebble. It skitters under the U-Haul. “No memories there.” The U-Haul is already half-packed