3. Rosalyn

THREE

ROSALYN

And your name?

A slender dagger slips between my ribs.

There's something so poetic about this moment.

The humor and the horror.

Nathan—Nate—thinks I'm a fan. And every time he says something nice, it wraps another cord of barbed wire around my throat.

I fight against the scraping pain and hold his gaze as I reply. "My name is Rosalyn."

I wait for it.

The recognition.

For him to put it together.

His smile softens. "Nice to meet you, Rosalyn."

That sharp bit twists, moving deeper into my chest.

He really doesn't remember.

"Hi. Can I join you?"

I look up at the unfamiliar voice and find a lanky boy standing a few feet away.

He's looking down at my mini stick house.

I nod. "Sure. "

I know strangers are dangerous, but I've seen this boy riding his bike down the street before.

He sits down across from me. "I'm Nathan. What's your name?"

I roll a stick between my fingers. "Rosalyn. But… people call me Rosie."

It's only a little bit of a lie. My mom was the only one who called me Rosie, and she's gone now, but I still like it.

"Nice to meet you, Rosie."

I blink as the memory turns to ash, drifting away.

Nathan scribbles on his notebook, and I beg my eyes to stay dry.

Beg my body to behave.

I can not have a mental breakdown.

I cannot.

"Rosalyn's a pretty name." Nathan tears the page out of the notebook and holds it out to me. "Make sure I spelled it correctly."

Hearing him say my name out loud is another twist of that dagger. Because there's still no recognition.

I take the piece of paper from him and press my lips together, holding my breath.

Rosalyn – Always nice to meet a fan.

A fan.

And below that, underneath his famous signature, is his phone number.

I read it again.

The first letter Nathan has written me since I was eight, and I think he's flirting with me.

He's flirting. And I feel like I'm dying.