My eyes travel to the binder on the table. It’s open, and the edges of a stack of papers are sticking out from the sides. I recognize the binder as the one I bought for him and smile at his still having it. Curiosity gets the best of me, and I find myself opening the binder. On the first page is printed: AFTER: BY HARDIN SCOTT I flip to the second page. It was the fall when he met her. Most people were obsessing over the way the leaves were turning and the smell of burning wood that always seems to linger in the air during this time of year; not him, he was only worried about one thing.
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Ohmygod
