One year later...

Kinsley

The nightmares still plague me.

At night, I toss and I turn. Guilt and despair are the epitome of causation.

The vehicle is a reminder of my nightmares, heightening the effects of trauma. Uncle Stanley is pulling into a parking space. Aunt Ann is talking to her mom—my grandma—about gardening tips. Grandpa is silent.

Me?

My lungs feel like they're compressing. I feel like I'm being smothered to death. I'm frozen in my seat, gripping the seatbelt so hard my knuckles are white. This doesn't feel like a casual drive to campus. I'm not in Calgary. I'm in hell.

Being in this vehicle is torture.

That's why, when the roaring engine has been cut, I'm the first one to exit the vehicle.

After exiting the vehicle, I remove my compact and dab concealer beneath my eyes. I then blend it with my fingers. The concealer doesn't erase the purple half-moons beneath my eyes.

Slouching against the car, I stare at my reflection. My blue eyes look dull. My blonde hair is flat, despite the brown undertones and blonder highlights. The scar across my cheekbone is milky, save for the faint dash of pink in the middle. I hold the compact out, getting a minimal view of my body. Even my cardigan looks wrong. It hangs on my skinny frame.

I sigh, glancing behind me. Grandma and Grandpa are already unloading my suitcases from the back of the vehicle. We're on campus at the University of Calgary.

Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I take a deep breath and slip the compact back into my bag. The air is crisp and cool. It smells of wet dirt and something musky, like decaying leaves. The weather today is blustery, adding to the dreary emotions threaded through my chest. I tighten my cardigan around me, searching the area as I do.

The University of Calgary is impressive. Pine trees challenge the erect buildings, standing tall and powerful amongst the industrialized area. Street-lamps line the road and parking lot. Around the buildings, there are grassy spaces dotted with picnic tables. Each table is occupied by students.

Their laughter and smiles make me wonder why I'm here. Online schooling would've been the better option. I feel out of place.

However, they can only hold my spot for so long. I worked damn hard to gain it. I graduated from high school with top grades. After graduating, I completed two years' worth of university courses in Winnipeg. Again, my grades were on top. Because of that, I was given a spot in one of Canada's best veterinarian programs.

I was supposed to go directly to vet school after those two years. It's why I switched residence to Alberta, living with my aunt and uncle for a few months. I wanted to test out living in Alberta. See if I could do it.

I loved it. Living in Alberta excited me. Especially because Aaron had agreed to transfer his credits there. He wanted to become a conservation officer.

The University of Calgary was—has always been my dream.

With Aaron, it moulded into our dream.

Until the accident happened.

Dipping my head down, I expel a deep breath. My nose burns. His name has the power to strip me of self-control.

On top of feeling out of place, I'm ridden with anxiety.

I'm walking into campus life alone.

Classes start Monday. By then, my grandparents will have flown back to Winnipeg. Aunt Ann and Uncle Stanley will be back in their apartment complex, back to living in bliss. They'll no longer have to walk on egg shells around me. Although they were kind enough to let me live with them prior to the accident, facing my aunt and uncle results in nothing but strained tension now. They're just like everyone else. Anyone who knows my story doesn't know how to approach me. Instead, they step back and cast me looks of sorrow.

To them, I'm the girl who lost everything. I'm the girl who survived. A walking contradiction.

Once my bags are unpacked, I turn to my aunt and uncle. Awkward tension settles between us. I rub my arm, keeping my head low.

"Thanks for the, uh, ride," I say.

Despite my best efforts to sound grateful, my voice is meek and emotionless. Positive emotions are hard to display. To feel. Unless they're directed to my grandparents, I'm cold as ice.

I know it's my fault. Two years have passed since the accident. In that time, I've been through countless therapists. Effort to cure myself of the trauma hasn't been lacking. But nothing has worked. I still distance myself. Within the past two years, I've disassociated myself from people in order to prevent bonds from forming.

Pain clings to my tissue. It seeps into every waking movement, drawing out the ache until it's all I can feel.

Having relationships with people only increases the chance of losing someone again. I'd rather be alone than risk reliving this pain.

Aunt Ann, with hesitance in her posture, gives me a hug. Her perfume is potent, smelling of roses. "Good luck, Kinsley," she whispers, rubbing my back. "If you need anything, we're an hour away."

All I can do is nod. If I speak, I'll cry. Aunt Ann is the hardest person to see. I can't look her in the eye. She has the same ones my mom did. The same deep brown.

Whenever Aunt Ann is around, I see Mom's ghost within my memories. I see us baking cakes. We're having heated games of Scrabble while sipping steaming cups of tea. Snow is falling outside, covering the ground in white.

But Mom is dead.

She, just like the rest of them, is nothing but a ghost in my memories.

They're gone.

Ripped away from me.

I exchange a hug with Uncle Stanley. He repeats Aunt Ann's words, emphasizing to call should I need anything.

After, I help Grandma and Grandpa gather my belongings. It's not much. Three cardboard boxes and one duffel bag. My belongings are minimal. Having too much stuff seemed useless post-accident. After I was discharged from the hospital, I threw out most of my belongings, keeping items I knew I needed.

"Call us when you're done, Mom," Aunt Ann says. "We'll pick you and Dad up."

Grandma leans over and kisses her daughter. "We'll see you soon, Ann."

I'm already walking down the sidewalk by the time she finishes her sentence. Box in hand and duffel bag over my shoulder, I glance up at the trees. They line the side walk. Some are deciduous trees, adding flares of red, yellow, and orange between sections of green.

"Kinsley," Grandpa says. He reaches out, resting a hand on my shoulder. I turn around, coming face-to-face with him. Mom and I inherited our height from Grandpa. I'm used to towering over people. But when I make eye contact with him, I feel smaller than a mouse. "They were trying."

My shoulders droop. Guilt consumes my heart. "I know," I reply. "I'm sorry. Sometimes, the pitying looks get to me."

Grandpa wraps one arm around my shoulders and pulls me close, kissing me on the forehead. "I know, Kins. I know."

My nose burns again.

"I wish they were here, Grandpa," I choke, burying my face in his shoulder. I squeeze my eyes shut, wishing the pain would stop being so obnoxious. No matter what I do, I can't shake it. My body is no longer made of elements. Instead, pain, grief, anxiety, and any side effects of trauma have filled me.

Behind my eyelids, I can see Mom. She's taking picture after picture of our family as we walk down this sidewalk. Mom loved to document everything.

Dad is helping me carry my laundry bin, trying to hold back his tears. Out of everyone wishing Aaron and me goodbye, Dad's having the most troublesome time. He will miss his little girl.

Jessa's admiring the campus. She keeps repeating she'll end up here one day.

My mind flashes to the end, where we have to part ways. Aaron is holding me close, promising Dad he'll look out for me. Mom is trying not to cry. Dad is sobbing. Jessa is telling Aaron and me we have to return home for Christmas.

Grandpa hugs me tighter, as if he can mould my heart into one piece.

I think what hurts the most is that I was never able to say goodbye to them. One moment, the moment the drunk driver struck our vehicle, changed everything. Somebody's actions stole the chance of a proper goodbye from me.

Saying goodbye is important. I never truly understood the importance until now. We take them for granted—the words, hugs, and kisses that are exchanged. We roll our eyes and think they're ridiculous. That's not the case at all. Goodbyes are a privilege. No matter what, you always say goodbye. You never know what the next day will bring. Or when the day will come where you don't get to say goodbye. Even when it's important. There might be a day where you miss out on saying goodbye to someone forever.

Stepping back, I wipe furiously at the tears with my free hand. "I wish they were here," I repeat.

When my family was alive, I looked forward to crying on this day. Now? Not so much. These tears should be because I'm a little bird flying the coop. I should cry because I have a home to return to. People I can depend on. People I will miss, but know I'll see again. Not because I'm a lost little bird who can never return to the nest.

"Oh, Kinsley," Grandma whispers, hugging Grandpa and I.

When she joined us, I'm not sure.

"They would be proud of you," she whispers. "Proud of you for fighting. For continuing. You were given another chance. Don't waste it, sweetie."

I nod, letting her words sink in. Attending post-secondary school isn't for me. This is for my grandparents. For Mom, Dad, Jessa. Mads and Aaron.

The rest of the walk to the resident building feels like the funeral all over again. We're quiet. Heavy, underlying emotions weigh on my shoulders. Everywhere I look, I'm reminded of my family. Of Aaron. Of Mads.

Mom and Dad were looking forward to this day. They should be here. Aaron should be here. Mads and I should be FaceTiming, squealing over our new campus lives and planning visits. Jessa...

Her memory hurts me the most.

She'll never be able to attend post-secondary school.

The ache in my heart splits me in half.

I feel as though all colour has been leached from my life, leaving me with nothing but shades of white, grey, and black.

The residence building stands erect at the end of the sidewalk, towering above the trees. My eyes follow the standard architecture, noting the number of floors and the location. The location regarding where the building is in relation to other buildings. Documenting familiar points will help me navigate around campus—as will the map tucked away in my purse.

Once inside the building, we take the elevator up to the third floor. Then we locate the seventh room. In front of the door, the one that has the number seven hanging from it, I pause and take a deep breath.

The air smells of old books, sweat, and linen. There are also floral and spicy notes. As if colognes and perfumes are seeping out from beneath the doors.

Gripping the handle, I open the door, expelling a deep breath as I do.

Aside from the furniture, the room is empty. Relief fills my chest. I want to settle before meeting my roommate.

Me and my grandparents survey the room. It's small. Two twin beds are on either side of the room. A long desk sits between, beneath a large window. It provides a fabulous view of the courtyard below. The walls are painted a creamy white.

One half of the room is bare. Void of any personal additions or colour. My roommate's side is tasteful. There's a white duvet cover embroidered with cherry blossoms. Picture frames decorate her side of the desk. Two bottles sit next to the old-fashioned alarm clock. One is a bottle of perfume made of purple glass. The other is a pink water bottle. A pile of clothes sits on the foot of the bed, left behind carelessly.

Anxiety tugs at the threads in my gut. I hope she isn't too friendly. If she expects a roommate who will watch movies until midnight and gossip about campus drama, she'll be disappointed. I'm here to attend school. Nothing else.

Sighing, I set my belongings down on the bed. I ignore how badly my hands are shaking. This is the part I dreaded the most.

Saying goodbye to my grandparents.

Goodbyes are the hardest for me. You never know when they'll be permanent.

The goodbyes that were exchanged on Christmas Eve were permanent for Mom, Dad, Jessa, Mads, and Aaron.

Grandma, knowing I can't find my words, pulls me into a hug. "We'll be back, sweetie," she whispers.

I hug my grandma, memorizing this moment. Her floral perfume. The crow's feet at the corners of her eyes. Her smile.

I do the same for Grandpa.

"Do you want us to stay and help you unpack?" Grandpa asks, clearing his throat.

"No thanks," I reply, shaking my head. "There isn't much to unpack. You guys need to rest up for tomorrow's flight. I'll... I'll call if anything goes wrong. I promise. Call me when you get to Aunt Ann's, okay?"

Grandpa flashes me a weak smile. It's ironic. They're worried about me although I'm staying here. Knowing they're climbing into a vehicle and driving to my aunt and uncle's house rattles me. My anxiety is through the roof.

"We will call you, I promise. We'll see you soon, Kinsley," Grandma says, squeezing my arm. "You will be okay."

The power in Grandma's voice makes my mouth twitch. She believes so strongly in me. I find it funny. How can she believe in me when all I want to do is break?

"I love you guys," I say, pulling them both in for one more hug. Tears are trickling down my cheeks now, threatening to turn into full-on sobs.

We exchange one last goodbye. They tell me how much they love me. How proud they are. Then Grandpa and Grandma leave, shutting the door behind them.

I sit down on the bed, causing a cardboard box to tumble. My belongings spill across the floor.

When I glance down, I see the picture frames I brought. I see my family. Aaron. Mads.

Tears spring to my eyes again.

Am I fool for thinking I can do this?

Surviving university will not be easy.

But I have to.

Choking on a sob, I tell myself I have to do this for Jessa. For Aaron. Mom and Dad. Mads.

Just then, two women enter the room.

My head snaps up. I frantically try to wipe away my tears. The red puffiness is something I know I can't hide, though.

Upon entering, they freeze. One is tall with pasty skin dotted with freckles. Her hair is red and falls around her shoulders in loose curls. The other has golden skin and her dark-brown hair is wavy.

The sight before them must be comical. A scared woman crying, her belongings scattered around her feet.

They exchange a glance before the red-head steps forward.

"Hi," she says. She holds her hand out to me. "I'm Tristan Vass. You must be my new roommate. It's a pleasure to finally meet you! This is my friend, Mariana Lopez."

I stare at her hand, wondering why she hasn't read the room. She's trying to be kind and welcoming. I understand that. But she should know better than to approach me when tears are streaking my face. There's plenty of tension within the room.

Mariana nudges Tristan in the ribs. "Read the room, Tris," she sighs. "Read the room."

Tristan's face falls. "Oh, right. I'm sorry. We'll, uh, we'll let you get settled. See you later...?"

"Kinsley," I reply. "Kinsley Hastings. Sorry. I rarely cry."

Liar.

Mariana gives me a sympathetic smile. "Living on campus is never easy," she says. "I cried after my mom helped me unpack. Being away from the family... It's difficult."

She couldn't have spoken more relatable words. They ease some of tension in my heart—even if her statement isn't entirely true. At least she can see her family.

"Thanks," I reply. My smile is weak and unconvincing. As is my voice. "It is difficult."

I choke over the last sentence, emotions bubbling to the surface. Tears threaten to spill down my cheeks again. I have to dip my head down as I sniffle.

Several seconds tick by. Mariana and Tristan are staring at me. I'm trying to control my emotions.

When I feel confident enough to look up, I see Tristan first. Her smile is pinched. She doesn't seem to agree with Mariana's words or the scene before her.

"Come on," Mariana murmurs, tugging at Tristan's sweater. "Let's give her some time to adjust."

Tristan tears her gaze from mine. She looks slightly displeased. I don't think she was expecting to meet her roommate this way. Crying and broken. Feeling worthless.

"It was nice to meet you, Kinsley. I'll see you later," she says.

Before I can tell them to not bother—I'm hungry and want to find a place to eat—Tristan and Mariana exit the room.

The door closes with a soft click.

My shoulders slouch as I wipe away my tears.

Great.

I've made a wonderful first impression. Next time I see them, questions will probably arise. They'll ask how close I am to my family. To see pictures. They'll try to comfort me.

Another tear slips down my cheek as I glance at my belongings strewn across the floor.

The last family picture we took sits next to my shoe.

I lean down and pick it up, running my fingers across the photo.

Ruthless tears drip down my face, falling to my lap.

I squeeze my eyes shut and press the photo against my heart.

"I wish you guys were here," I whisper.