A FEW DAYS LATER, I went to Anna’s room and retrieved her poems from the bookcase. I sat on her bed and started reading through them again.

Last time, I’d read them quickly, searching for clues. Hadn’t balanced each word on my tongue, hadn’t paid attention to how they fit together to tell a story, to make a larger image. How the poem about a flower wasn’t just about a flower but about how she’d seen the flower, about her memory of it and what it had meant to her. Mr. Matthews might have been worried about her, might have liked her as a person, but in terms of her writing I suspected he’d simply been stating the truth: she was becoming a wonderful writer, and he was so glad to have her in his class.

The love poem I left to the side, unsure whether I could cope with reading through it again, knowing that I might now see Charlie in every line.

I’d gone through most of the stack before I heard a soft knock on the side of the door, and then Mom slowly pushed it open.

“Hey,” she said. “I wanted to let you know we’ll be eating in about half an hour.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll come down and help set the table in a few minutes.”

“That would be great.” Her gaze settled on the pile of poems beside me. “What are you reading?”

“Poems,” I said. “Of Anna’s.”

“Can I look?” she asked. The question came out casual, nonchalant, but there were traces of something else there, something echoed in the creases that had appeared at the corner of her eyes and her mouth.

I hesitated briefly, not wanting to let them go. Then I remembered the box, and I nodded.

She sat down beside me. I watched her read through two of the nature ones. Saw her smile and occasionally silently mouth some of the phrases. I had expected to feel a sense of loss watching her absorb Anna’s words, but it wasn’t like that. It made me feel lighter inside, like there was less pressure.

Still, when she picked up the love poem, I felt myself start to reach forward, wanting to take it from her. I stopped myself, though. It’s okay. I thought. You don’t know that it’s about him.

She read the poem twice. I could tell by the way her eyes tracked down the page.

“It’s lovely,” she said. Her hand held it lightly, as if that piece of paper were more fragile than the others.

“I guess. It’s a little sappy.” It was hard watching her hold it, and I wanted her to move on from it, to put it back down, so my words were sharper than I intended.

She furrowed her brow and looked at me quizzically.

“Sappy?”

I shrugged. “You know what I mean. Just a generic love poem.”

She shook her head slowly. “Sweetheart—I don’t think it’s a love poem.” She paused. “Or, I suppose it is a love poem, in a sense, but not a romantic one.”

It sounded like a riddle. “I don’t know what you mean.”

She got up from the bed and flattened out the page for me.

“Read it again,” she said. “Take your time. Take as much time as you need.” And then she left the room, closing the door behind her, the latch clicking shut.

I picked up the poem, steeling myself for the possibility of seeing Charlie through Anna’s eyes while also knowing how it all ended.

I read through the poem slowly, hesitantly, waiting for the trapdoor to open underneath me.

I read it again.

And again.

It took a while for me to understand.

Because I had assumed it was about a boy. Because that fit with what I was searching for. Because it fit with the dress.

But I had been wrong. Just like I had been wrong about so many things.

Because it wasn’t about Charlie. Or even Nick. Wasn’t about a boy at all.

It was about me.

It was about us.

I want to tell you everything

Want to talk deep through the night—

Sometimes I feel you already know

All the things I hold inside.

It’s hard being away from you

And it’s hard being too close by

You want so much, you are so sure—

I feel so far behind.

And I can’t forget you lying there

Stretched out beneath the sky—

How my heart only started to beat again

When you opened up your eyes.