But Mickey never comes. He doesn’t answer when I pick up the phone and call him. He isn’t there when I go to our spot after school, or the next day when I walk out of the house with my hair down. I call again. It goes straight to voicemail. I show up at his home, but no one answers his door. I go again the next day and the next. Until days turn into weeks, and weeks turn into months. A year goes by. He doesn’t show up for my graduation. He doesn’t come when I am hospitalized. He doesn’t say “happy birthday” when I turn eighteen. A year and one day later, I can’t walk, just like he said. I
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