I saw you hanging half out of your window every afternoon — all longing, all desperation. You had stopped wearing red, and would bite your thumbs to keep from making a sound as you cried. Your tears went down your cheeks and took my heart with them. It sank to the bottom of everything where I kept every memory I couldn’t bear to remember.

Your problem was a boy who had stopped writing E-L-I-S-E absentmindedly on the pages of his sketchbooks and scrap paper, and notebooks and envelopes. He had started fashioning himself new letters to form the name of a new lover weeks before — weeks before when he used to kiss you behind the butcher shop. And the distinct smell of raw meat was wasted on you because your senses were filled only with him.

“What a shame that his eyes were roaming elsewhere,” your mother said and stroked your hair like they all did. But I saw you weep, Elise. I would have let you weep into my chest if you would have only looked down just once and saw me. Because I saw you. I saw you when you used to wear red.