Dear Francisco

Author's Preface

The strange thing about living your life twice is that the second time around, you stop remembering the milestones and start remembering the moments in between.

When I thought back on high school the first time, graduation had always been the memory that stood out. It felt like the finish line, the day we threw our caps into the air, hugged our friends goodbye, and swore we’d never lose touch even though most of us eventually did.

Living it again changed that.

Graduation wasn’t what I remembered most.

It was everything that quietly happened before it.

I remembered Friday nights sitting in cold aluminum bleachers with Lyla, pretending we were there for the football game when, in reality, I barely knew the score half the time. Carter played wide receiver, and I couldn’t have explained half the rules if someone had handed me a million dollars to do it. I only knew enough to recognize his number and cheer whenever everyone else did. Sometimes he’d catch me watching him from the stands afterward and grin like he’d somehow known exactly where I was the entire game.

I remembered Saturdays at the mall with Lyla, walking laps because neither of us had enough money to actually buy anything. We’d spend an hour trying on clothes we’d never take home, split an order of fries in the food court, and somehow convince ourselves that wandering through bookstores counted as productivity. Looking back now, I don’t remember a single thing we bought.

I remember laughing.

I remembered prom.

The first time I lived this life, I spent so much of prom wishing I could go with Carter that I barely remember the night itself. The second time, I danced until my feet hurt, laughed with my friends until my stomach ached, and somehow managed to spill cheese fries down the front of my dress before the night was over. I spent ten minutes in the gym bathroom trying to scrub melted cheese out of satin while Lyla laughed so hard she couldn’t breathe.

Funny how letting go of what I couldn’t have made room for memories I’d never made the first time.

Senior year was different.

By then we were both eighteen, and for the first time, there wasn’t a rule standing between us. I still remember hearing the doorbell ring while I stood in front of my bedroom mirror, smoothing imaginary wrinkles out of a dress I’d already adjusted at least twenty times. My dad answered the door, and I heard Carter’s voice float down the hallway before I ever saw him.

He was nervous.

Not because of prom.

Because he was meeting my father as the boy taking me on our first real date.

My dad gave him the speech every father thinks is original, Carter nodded so seriously you’d think he was signing a legal contract, and my mom insisted on taking what felt like two hundred pictures before we were finally allowed to leave.

Neither of us danced particularly well.

We stepped on each other’s feet more than once.

The photographer somehow managed to capture me mid-laugh in half the pictures because Carter spent the entire night whispering ridiculous commentary under his breath every time someone tried to pose us.

For years, those pictures sat in a box somewhere in my closet.

I hadn’t looked at them in forever.

Now I wondered if I’d ever appreciated them as much as they deserved.

The memories that surprised me most weren’t the dances or football games.

They were the ordinary evenings.

Somewhere during junior year, Carter’s house quietly became my second home.

Whenever things felt heavy at my own house, I’d end up there without really planning to. Sometimes we’d sit in his room doing homework. Other times we’d watch terrible movies neither of us actually liked or argue over which pizza toppings should’ve been illegal. His parents never asked why I was there so often. They’d simply make enough dinner for one more person and call us to the table when it was ready.

Back then, I thought they were just being kind.

Now, looking at those memories through older eyes, I wondered if they’d seen more than I’d ever told them.

Maybe they noticed how slowly I packed my things when it was time to leave.

Maybe they noticed how quiet I became whenever my phone rang and it was home calling.

Maybe they understood that some kids stay because they don’t want to leave.

If they did…

They never made me explain.

Looking back, I don’t think Carter saved me from my home life.

I think he gave me somewhere I could finally exhale.

The years slipped by so naturally after that that sometimes I forgot they were slipping at all. Before I knew it, graduation was only days away, and Carter and I were sitting cross-legged on his bedroom floor with college schedules spread out between us like we were solving the world’s most complicated puzzle.

“This professor has awful reviews,” he said, pointing to one class.

“How do you know?”

“My cousin took him.”

“Maybe your cousin was just a bad student.”

“My cousin failed pottery.”

I blinked.

“There’s a class where you can fail pottery?”

“There is if you’re gifted.”

I laughed and reached for another course catalog.

“What about this history class?”

He leaned over to look.

“Tuesday and Thursday.”

I checked mine.

“I’ve got Psychology then.”

“So switch.”

“You make it sound easy.”

“It is.”

“What if the class fills up?”

He looked at me like I’d asked the dumbest question imaginable.

“Then we register the second it opens.”

“So your entire college plan is built around us having classes together?”

He looked genuinely confused.

“Well… yeah.”

I couldn’t stop smiling.

Neither of us thought that was strange.

We were best friends.

Of course we wanted to spend every day together.

Neither of us had any idea that adulthood had a funny way of shrinking time. That one day jobs, bills, responsibilities, and entirely different lives would replace carefully planned schedules and afternoons spent arguing over electives.

At eighteen, forever still felt close enough to touch.

A week later, I sat on my bedroom floor surrounded by notebooks, pens, and folders, trying to decide which backpack looked the most “college.”

Most of what I pulled from my desk went straight into a box.

Then my hand brushed against something tucked beneath a stack of old school papers.

The notebook.

My heart stopped.

I hadn’t opened it in… I wasn’t even sure how long.

Slowly, I lifted it into my lap.

The cover was worn from being handled so many times. When I opened it, familiar handwriting stared back at me.

Dear Francisco…

The first pages were desperate.

Every letter carried the same fear.

Please don’t forget me.

Please know I never stopped loving you.

Tell the kids…

I turned another page.

Then another.

My breathing slowed.

The dates caught my attention before the words did.

At first I’d written every day.

Then every few days.

Then once a week.

Eventually…

Months had passed between entries.

I frowned.

That didn’t make sense.

I flipped back to the beginning and started counting.

One page.

Two.

Five.

Twelve.

My fingers moved faster.

The dates lined up exactly the way they should have. There weren’t any missing pages. No torn paper. No empty spaces between entries.

Still…

Something felt wrong.

I could’ve sworn there were more letters.

I sat perfectly still, staring at the notebook in my lap.

No.

Not more pages.

More…

Something.

I couldn’t explain it.

The feeling slipped away almost as quickly as it had come, leaving behind nothing but a dull ache at the back of my mind. It was like waking up absolutely certain someone had called your name, only to realize the room was empty.

I shook my head.

“You’re tired.”

Graduation.

Packing.

College.

Anyone’s brain would’ve been scrambled after a week like this.

I smiled at my own imagination and ran my hand across the worn cover.

Then I looked back down at the page.

For the briefest second…

The handwriting didn’t feel familiar.

Not different.

Just…