I was so out of it today, Manny told me to take the day off.

Valid.

Now I'm sitting alone on this stupid bed feeling sorry for myself, as if I don't deserve to feel like this.

I picked up my phone a thousand times to call her. I have her number saved. I changed my cell at the airport before I got here. I thought that maybe she'd call and ask me to come back, and I wouldn't be able to say no.

I gave in and actually called her. She answered. I heard her voice. She just kept saying hello. I didn't speak. I hoped maybe she'd know it was me without me having to say anything. Maybe she'd know I was calling to wish her a happy birthday. After a few seconds, I heard a guy’s voice. She told him to wait, and said hello a few more times. I still didn't say shit. I swear to God she whispered my name.

I hung up and called Jake.

He asked if I was okay. I told him I wasn't. He knew it was her birthday. He said that Micky was Facebook friends with her, and that it alerted her, but they weren't speaking yet. Amanda's wishes. From what he knew, she was okay. That was as much as he could tell me. I asked him to get Micky to email me that picture of her—the one from my desk. I hung up, and a minute later I got the email.

I stared at it for five hours.

Then I figured I should do something else to stop me from going crazy. I picked up one of Jamal's self-help books.

That's where I found this: Transit umbra, lux permanet.

How fitting.

Diary, no one else will understand this, so I'm gonna let you in on a little secret. When I started planning the Vegas trip, a part of me hoped that she'd think I wanted to take her there to get married. I would have. Married her, I mean. People might not have understood. People might have hated the choice we made or be upset we didn't do it properly. But she was my person. Nothing else mattered. Not back then. Now everything matters.

Because I was the match that started the inferno.

*

Seventeen weeks post Amanda.

Nightmare count: too fucking many.

Manny seems to think I'm getting better. I don't know. Maybe I am. Or maybe I've just gotten better at faking it.

*

Eighteen weeks post Amanda.

The worst day of my life was my twenty-first birthday.

The second worst day is today.

Today, a woman came in carrying a little girl in her arms. There was blood all over them. Especially in between their legs. A boy walked in behind them. They were all beaten and bruised, barely recognizable. But I knew who the girl was right away. Amuhda. Her mom and her had been beaten and raped. Raped. What the fuck is wrong with this world?

The little boy, barely able to stand upright, held Amuhda's hand while we tried to stop the bleeding. The entire time we worked on her, he stood by her head, whispering things in her ear.

I wanted to puke. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted to kill someone. I wanted to go back home and fall asleep with Amanda in my arms and tell her how much I love her. I wanted to hear her laugh, snort, cry, yell, anything. I just wanted her.

Last night I dreamt of her. No shitty nightmares. Just her. She told me she loved me. It felt so real, I think my heart actually broke when I realized it wasn't. All damn day I'd heard her voice in my head. I love you so much, Logan. That's what she kept saying—in my head—over and over again.

Maybe it was my punishment. Like Karma. Here—have this moment with the girl you love, and the words you've always wanted to hear—and then watch as a mother and her kids almost die on a table battling monsters.

Fucking monsters.

I can't sleep.

The ache in my chest prevents it.

*

20 weeks post Amanda.

I still can't sleep. Lie. I can sleep. I just don't want to. Every time I close my eyes, there's monsters. Only this time, they're not just mine; they're Amuhda's too.

I know I look like shit. Manny's starting to worry. He says he's calling my dad. I told him to fuck off, then apologized, blaming it all on the lack of sleep.

Two days ago, I realized I hadn't showered for five days. I still had blood under my fingernails. Good times.

Diary, you're a fucking asshole, you don't do shit to help me. No one does shit to help me. What's wrong with me?

My real name is Logan Declan Strauss. Did you know that, diary? Did you?

*

Twenty-one weeks post Amanda.

The last three nights I've had the nightmares. I wake up, screaming in a pool of sweat. Last night I pissed the bed. Jamal's worried, threatens to tell Manny. I'm not dealing with that shit. It was just a nightmare.

I got locked in a cupboard for my sixth birthday. I think it was for three days. I remember my parents' high-fiving each other; apparently it was a new record. I stopped crying after the first day. After I worked out that me crying made it worse. Funny, how six year olds work that shit out.

I shared a birthday with this kid in my class. I can't for the fucking life of me remember his name. But I remember him coming to school with a new Gameboy and flashy clothes. I came to school with an eye patch and a bruised back. My mom told the teachers I was going through a pirate phase. My mom was a smartass.

*

Still twenty-one weeks post Amanda.

Location: I don't know.

Nightmares: Even when I'm not sleeping.

Dear Diary,

Manny called my Dad and told him that I needed help. We played two truths for fifteen for three hours. I miss him. Almost as much as Amanda. I told him that. He said he knew. He missed me, too. I needed to hear it. Dad told me to come home. What the hell good would I be there? But then again, what the hell good am I here? Manny talked to him afterwards and offered a solution, a deal of sorts.