Chapter 1: The Box
The closet in Maya’s old room smelled exactly like Maya.
Not perfume. Not exactly. Just — vanilla body spray from Bath & Body Works, old paperbacks, and that laundry detergent my mom only used for Maya’s clothes because Maya had “sensitive skin.” I had been breathing that smell for seventeen years of my life, and for the last two years, it had been fading.
Mom told me to clean out Maya’s closet. Not clean it out clean it out, because “Maya will be back for Thanksgiving and you know how she is about her things,” but make space. My cousins were coming to stay for a week and my mom, in her infinite wisdom, decided they should stay in Maya’s room. Which meant I had to go through Maya’s stuff and decide what was worth keeping in boxes and what could go to the attic.
I didn’t want to. Maya’s room had been a museum since she left for college in Portland. Her fairy lights were still taped to the wall, even though half of them had burned out. Her acceptance letter was still pinned to her corkboard. Her desk was still covered in AP Lit notes and half-finished college essays and Starbucks receipts she used as bookmarks.
I sat on the floor and started with the easy stuff. Sweaters she hadn’t worn since sophomore year. Jeans that were too short now. A pile of old concert tees. I was folding a black jean jacket — the one she wore every single day in 11th grade, the one I had asked to borrow a hundred times and she always said no — when something heavy thumped inside the pocket.
It wasn’t heavy like keys. It was heavy like paper.
I reached in and pulled out a folded piece of loose-leaf paper, yellowed at the edges. It was folded into thirds, like a letter.
Jason —
That was all it said on the outside, in Maya’s handwriting. I would know Maya’s handwriting anywhere. Messy, loopy, she always dotted her i’s with little hearts even when she was 17 and trying to be cool.
Jason.
I shouldn’t have opened it. Every part of my brain said: Chloe, put it back. This is private. This is your sister’s.
I opened it.
Jason —
I saw you today in the hallway and you didn’t look at me. You never look at me anymore. I don’t know what I did. Mom says I should just ask you but I can’t. If I ask you and you say you don’t like me anymore, then it’s real. Right now I can pretend you were just having a bad day.
— M
It was dated October 12, 2022. Two years ago. Maya would have been a senior.
My stomach dropped. Maya never talked about a Jason. Maya dated — well, Maya had a very public, very dramatic boyfriend named Tyler who played varsity soccer and broke up with her right before prom. Everyone knew about Tyler. No one knew about Jason.
I told myself that was it. One letter, weird, old news. I put it back in the jacket pocket and went back to folding. But my hands were shaking a little.
Then I saw the shoebox.
It was pushed all the way to the back of the closet, behind a stack of yearbooks, underneath a pile of winter blankets. A plain white Nike box. No label.
I pulled it out. It was heavy.
Inside were letters. So many letters. At least twenty, maybe more, all in different stages of wear. Some were on loose-leaf, some on pretty stationery with little flowers, some on the back of homework assignments. Some were sealed in envelopes that had never been stamped. One was written on a napkin from the school cafeteria.
All of them said the same thing on the outside: Jason R.
The one on top was not folded. It was open, like she had written it and then given up halfway.
Jason R. — You moved. You actually moved and you didn’t tell me. Mrs. Alvarez told me your family moved to the district last week. How could you not tell me? How could you leave and not say goodbye after everything? I waited at our bench for an hour. — M
Our bench? What bench?
I heard my mom calling me from downstairs. “Chloe! Did you make space yet? Your cousins will be here in two hours!”
I shoved the box back, but I took three letters. I don’t know why I took three. I just — I couldn’t leave them all there. I stuffed them into the pocket of my hoodie and ran out.
That Monday at school, we got a new student in AP English.
Mrs. Reyes stood at the front of the class, her usual stack of graded essays in her arms, and said, “Class, this is my son, Jason. His father and I recently moved back to the area, so he’ll be joining us for the rest of the semester. Please make him feel welcome.”
And a boy walked in. Tall, dark hair that was a little too long, like he cut it himself. He wore a gray hoodie and had headphones around his neck. He didn’t look at anyone. He just nodded once and went to sit in the only empty seat in the room — the one right behind me.
Mrs. Reyes has taught at our school for ten years. Everyone knew she had a son, but he went to school in the next town over. No one had ever seen him.
He sat down behind me and I could smell his cologne. Something woodsy and clean.
Mrs. Reyes started talking about The Great Gatsby, and I tried to focus. I really did. But all I could think about were the three letters burning a hole in my backpack.
At the end of class, as I was packing up, a small sketchbook fell from his desk onto the floor. It landed open.
It was a drawing of a bench under a big oak tree. The bench behind our school library. The bench no one ever sits on because the sprinklers hit it.
Underneath, in small, neat handwriting: M’s bench.
My heart stopped.
He picked it up quickly, before I could say anything. Our eyes met for half a second. His were dark brown, and tired.
“You like to draw?” I blurted out. Stupid. So stupid.
He just looked at me, like he was trying to place me. “Do I know you?”
“Chloe. Chloe Bennett. I’m —”
“Bennett?” His face changed. Just a flicker. “Maya’s little sister.”
The world tilted.
He knew my sister.
