affluenza (1.) | ✔️

Epilogue // Braylen Adams

SIX MONTHS LATER.

        MY KNUCKLES RAP on Mr. Peterson's door softly and he calls me in. I tug at my sweater, suddenly nervous about what he thought of my assignment. I'd done my best to push it out of my mind and just write what I needed to write. Suddenly, I worry that I didn't word things correctly. But, I'd been honest. That had to count for something, right?

        "You can shut the door behind you," Mr. Peterson says, fixing his glasses on his face. He wasn't old, but he wasn't young either. He had salt-and-pepper hair and his face still showed remnants of an attractive guy that was becoming worn down by age. I shut the door and take a seat at the chair before him, crossing my ankles over each other. "I was looking over your assignment and felt I needed to speak with you about it."

        "Okay," I respond, thinking back to him flagging me down after class for a discussion. "Is there something wrong?"

        Mr. Peterson furrows his brow and I see all of my letters staining the table before him, my careful script over each page. "Your assignment was to tell a story of your life in a creative way. The letters were your format, yes?"

        I nod once. "Yes, sir."

        "Very creative," he says. "But, Mr. Adams, I couldn't help but notice you didn't put anything else after Sebastian's death in the story. The funeral, the moving on, the letting go...where's the arc? Where's the resolution, where's the growth?"

        I smile softly and go to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear before remembering I'd freshly chopped it off. It hung just above my ears now. "You're looking at it, sir."

        His brows move in confusion. I clear my throat. "Sebastian once asked me to write about him. It took me months to be able to. That's my growth. That's my arc. Being able to tell you how loving him has affected me. What happens next doesn't matter; you asked for my story, this is what it was. My story was his."

        Peterson rubs his chin. "It was quite moving. And I am very sorry for your loss."

        I nod. I'd grown tired of hearing those words over the months. "Thank you."

        I stand to leave, feeling that the conversation was done but Peterson only clears his throat. I turn back around and look at him. "Here at Berkeley...we strive for innovative students like you. I'd like to submit this to the school's newspaper. Get the story out there. Show people that they're not alone. What do you think?"

        I smile softly. "I think he'd like that. Sebastian."

        Peterson grins. "It's a plan, then. Enjoy your Christmas break, Mr. Adams."

        I smile tightly at him again, leaving the room in a quick stride. I'm out to my car quickly, having already packed my bags in preparation for going home today. The drive back is a long one due to California traffic and when I make it back to Malibu, I'm exhausted. Aunt Amanda and the twins welcome me home with a hot meal and a family movie, though I fall asleep in the middle of it.

        The next morning I slide out of bed early—which really means 8:30. Oba offers me a breakfast of champions but I turn it down, even though my stomach growled at the smell. I had somewhere I needed to be.