I open my eyes. I am standing in front of my house, 55 Timmi Lane, and everything is tinted a pale, cornflower blue. The grass shifts gently beneath my bare feet as the trees that cradle my home rock themselves to the bidding of the breeze. Their sound has always comforted me, a gentle white noise against all the mental cacophony, but there’s none of that right now. No extra sounds in my head, no wayward thoughts and anxieties bouncing back and forth. I take both of my hands to my ears to cover them. I can still hear the trees.

            My hands themselves are not in any way blue, and I appear to be as I always have been. I proceed toward the front stoop of my home.

            I gently turn the knob and the door gracefully enters into the home, no push required, and no wooden screech of obstinance, it just easily lets me inside. Curious, I close the door behind me; it was naturally just as easy and entered back into its pocket quietly, though I can still hear the trees.

            Without thought, I make my way up the stairs, turning left at the landing and making my way down the hall, looking longingly at the closed, ghostly blue door. Everything is still blue, but it seems to be only the bare bones of the home I once knew. There are no badly taped pieces of magazine or cardboard to my door, and no decorations adorn the walls of the second floor, nor the rooms of the first. As the whisper of the trees soothe me further into a state of hypnosis, I clutch the doorknob to my room.

            The foundation of my time here is all that remains, a bed, a nightstand, a dresser and wardrobe, and a bookcase. My closet doors are gone, revealing rows upon rows of labelled cardboard boxes.

            “Early Memories,” “Mom,” “Competitive Swimming,” “The Marshall County Fair,” all compartmentalized individually and neatly organized. I don’t know if I’m able to speak, but there’s nothing I really want to say; I feel an itch on my face for a need to be reactionary, to be excited or confused, but all I can hear are the trees.

            My eyes are drawn to a particular row of boxes, the first one is labelled, “Zachary.” I slowly move towards it, my body moving with the pulsing sway of the forest around my childhood home. I gently remove the box from its space in the assorted wall. I hold it in my hands for a moment, sliding off the top with an air of caution.

*

            I open my eyes. I am sitting in the chapel of the high school I attended as a freshman, Wheeling Central Catholic. I can no longer hear the trees. My vision unclouded from cornflower hue, I look at him. Zach, he’s sitting next to me. I like to think that he’s my friend. We ate lunch together with his two twin brothers, they said I was a good friend to have. I was very happy.

            It was Day as a Knight, where eighth graders were allowed to come to the school to shadow other students, participate in fun activities, ask questions, and be sent home with free stuff knowing full well that it would be the last free thing that school would ever give them. I had been ostracized by what felt like all my friends for even considering the notion of going to Wheeling Central, as it broke the natural pilgrimage all Marshall County students must take, that of which ultimately leads them to the holy city of Moundsville, West Virginia, basking in the glory of John Marshall High School.

            I was out of place. A sore thumb in a catalog of perfectly manicured fingers, but he talked to me. We got along very well, and it made me excited to think that I had a friend. We spent the day together, side-by-side, he explained many things to me, and I him.

            At the end of the day, when people were finding their parents and shuffling into minivans, we seemed to get lost in the mix. My ride wasn’t there yet, so I looked for him, possibly for comfort, or maybe for a ride; I also desperately wanted to get his number so we could talk over the summer and further prepare for high school together. I didn’t find him.

*

            I feel myself being drawn away from the memory, sliding the lid of the box back into place. I don’t enjoy the ending.

            The next box is labelled, “Ethan P.,” I smile to myself, trading the box I have for the one still in the mix.

*

            I open my eyes. I am laying in my bed at home. The walls are only starting to be filled up with different clippings, drawings, and notes. My first bookcase broke, so a random assortment of books and other various tchotchkes are piled on the floor, lining my wall. I hold my phone above my face, waiting for an answer; the screen lights up and it vibrates in my palms, a message from Ethan flashes across the screen. I smile.

            He has the same name as my best friend, and he makes me laugh. He’s very talented and we’re lucky to have a lot in common. He goes by Chip, for some reason; I think it’s cool and different, but I always call him Ethan. I started calling him Pondie, Pond Scum, when I’m upset; he thinks it’s funny.

            I stay up until the wee hours of the night to Skype him. We both want to make sure that our parents aren’t awake to hear us. We laugh and joke with one another and change our profile bios to each read “997 miles” because it’s how far apart from one another we are. I absent mindedly scroll through Greyhound bus ticket listings as he talks about his friends from school.

            I make him a birthday present and ask my mom to help me ship it to him. She’s very confused and upset, yelling at me in the car about how I’m going to die alone of AIDS and burn in hell. I hope he likes the gift.

*

            I close the box slowly, half-wanting to remember but always longing to forget. I miss him.

            I reach for the next box, “Henry,” and almost stop myself. I look around, as if hiding something, and easily draw the box out.

*

I open my eyes and I’m looking into his. They’re deep brown in color and handsome, but I can’t go any deeper, I’m only able to take him in on a surface level. His olive skin is gleaming under the neon lights, the bridge of his strong, Roman nose, catches flares of pink and green from the ceiling. He smiles softly as he holds my waist in his hands, the only thing keeping me from melting into a puddle on the floor. John Legend’s, “All of Me,” plays in the background.

There’s a group of girls on the other side of the room, watching us intently, even two of the counselors for the camp stand on their toes on stage to look at us.

“Should we just get this over with,” I ask him, nervously, not knowing how to initiate absolutely anything.

“What?” he asks.

I kiss him, wanting to pull away fast when all I can hear is the sound of girls screaming, but sink deeply into it when he pushes back towards me. I get nervous and put my head in his chest, laughing.

I felt love in the basement of Marshall’s Student Union that night.

*

            I quickly shutter the box before I’m reminded of anything else, perfectly content in that being all there is to remember about Henry.

            I keep the box out, thinking I might return to it, as I draw out the next, reading, “Ethan H.”

*

            I don’t open my eyes. I’m immersed in a passionate make-out session in the front seat of Ethan’s Toyota Tacoma. It smells atrocious. An olfactory cocktail of sweaty soccer equipment and mango Juul pods seem to exhaust all my senses, but I don’t think Ethan would have it any other way. Thankfully, he smells amazing. His cologne battles all the scents of the truck in my nose as I lose myself further and further into his intoxication. My brain is on fire.

            He takes a hand and puts it up my shorts. I pull away from him, surprised, asking him why, sprinkled with interjections of no and how I thought we were having fun. He reassures me that we are having fun, but that we could always have more. I ask if we can keep kissing.

            We’re focused entirely on each other again. He reaches over, half expecting him to put one of his hands up my pants again, but instead takes my hand in his. I smile, clasping his hand tight as I kiss him deeper.

            He takes my hand and moves it over to his side of the truck, putting it on his crotch. I open my eyes, confused, as he whispers in my ear, “Do something with it.”

*

            I take a minute to process the memory, always getting caught up in the last few minutes before I ask him to take me home. I struggle to move the box from my lap.

            There’s one box left in the row. I recognize it as being freshly organized, with new bits and pieces being added every day. I smile, reassured, as my mind drifts away from the night with Ethan H., the heartbreak of Henry, or the longing for Ethan P. and Zach. I brush my fingers against the label, “Ean.”

*

            I open my eyes. The room is dimly lit, a soft pink emanating from behind the TV across from me. The soft pitter-patter of rain can be heard as each drop meets the roof of the condo, sliding down the gentle slope to kiss the Tudor windowpane.

            I’m in his bed, covered and warm by a plush new bedspread I like to think he bought for us. He sleeps quietly beside me. I look at him in the rose-colored light, tracing his silhouette with my eyes.

            I shift my body closer to his, putting my head on his chest and laying a hand on his left shoulder; he awakes for a second, accommodating me, and gives me a gentle kiss on the forehead. I feel safe.

            I lie upon his chest and think of everything he is to me, how important he is to my life, my story, and how very lucky I am to have found him. Never would I have imagined that I would be able to have someone like this, to have someone like him.

            I close my eyes. I can hear the trees.