Westbound Sign ➵ Billie Joe Armstrong

The Year That Ruined Me

Collin

I turned twenty in silence.

No party. Small cake from my parents. A "you made it." Unopened gift from Erin. Just the hum of my bedroom ceiling fan and the flicker of a candle I lit because I couldn't stand the overhead light. I'd found it at the bottom of my bag, still smelling faintly like the motel room in El Paso - cheap vanilla and chlorine.

I didn't open the birthday card from my aunt. I hadn't even unzipped my luggage since I got back. It was still sitting there by the door, half covered by the hoodie I wore on the drive home. The one that still kind of smelled like Billie.

I hadn't washed it. Couldn't. Not yet.

My mom had tried - gently, in her own way. "You should eat something, honey," she'd said more than once, knocking on the door with a bowl of soup or a sandwich. "Even if it's just a bite." I always nodded, told her I would. Then let the food go cold on my nightstand until she gave up and came back for it.

My dad kept dropping hints about "helping out more at the store," like I was one bad mood away from flunking out of life. Maybe I was.

Erin called. Left Voicemails. Knocked. I didn't answer.

Not because I didn't want to see her. I just... didn't want to see anyone who knew me. Not now. Not like this. Because if I did, it'd all come spilling out - how I felt like I was grieving someone who wasn't even dead. How I kept catching myself looking for Billie in every stranger's profile. Every voice on the radio. Every dumb lookalike in the grocery store parking lot.

And now it was New Year's Eve.

Another thing I didn't want to deal with.

Erin's dad was throwing their annual party out on the family ranch, like he did every year - bonfires and brisket and all the townies pretending to like each other for one night. It was tradition. My mom said, "You should go, baby. It'll do you good. Wear that green dress you wore to church last Easter. You looked so beautiful in it."

I nodded again. Then went back to lying on my bed, staring at the corner of the ceiling like I was waiting for God to say something.

I wasn't sad, not exactly. I was just... blank.

Like someone had pressed pause on me.

Like the version of me that had come back from the road hadn't made it all the way home. Like she got left somewhere out in the desert - somewhere between a roadside diner and a busted couch in the middle of a photo shoot.

And maybe she did.

Maybe that version of me didn't fit here anymore.

I still had Billie's postcard. The first one. The one he made fun of me for. And the tape he gave me, the one I hadn't dared to listen to again. I kept them in the drawer under my socks like they were contraband.

Sometimes, I took them out just to prove to myself he'd been real.

Because lately, it didn't feel that way.

Lately, it felt like I'd imagined the whole damn thing.

Even the goodbye.

Especially the goodbye.

And God, I hated myself for letting it matter that much.

But it did.

I didn't move when the front door creaked open.

Didn't flinch when I heard my mom's voice float up the stairs - soft, amused, "She's in her room, sugar. I gave up knocking three days ago."

I stayed curled under the blanket, eyes half open, staring at the same crack in the ceiling I'd been counting for days. The world outside my bedroom door was still spinning, but mine was stuck in amber.