DEAR SAMMY,

Okay, so I’m back. Let me just say you didn’t miss anything. Why don’t people warn you about how boring the actual graduation ceremony is? I mean, come oooon. Four hours of people getting up onstage and talking about all their dreams and goals and . . . Fuck. I can’t breathe. Gimme a sec, okay?

Breathing is underrated. That’s my observation of the day. You’d think it’d cross people’s minds more often considering we’d all die without oxygen, but nope. I’ve realized I am in the minority when it comes to my obsession. And I hate it. It’s not fair. All my focus revolves around my chest tightening and closing in. The squish and soft bits that protect my skeleton become a vise—a torture device—and it’s squeezing every single bit of oxygen out of my existence.

If you were still around, you’d understand because you were the only person who knew me better than I know myself. You had this magical way of making me forget about breathing altogether. But you aren’t here anymore. I won’t lay the blame entirely on you, promise, but who am I kidding? Life was a lot easier with you in it.

I miss you, Sammy. I literally miss you with every breath I take. When do we—the ones who are uncontrollably obsessed with breathing—get a chance to forget about you? about our lungs? Are we malfunctioning humans? Has my warranty already expired because yours did?

If so, then I want a refund. Honestly, because this sucks. I only need to forget for a little while. Just a few Sammy-free breaths.

Before you died my anxiety was like a pebble in my shoe. When I noticed it, it super sucked, right? But it wasn’t always there. Now there’s a goddamn boulder in my shoe and it’s stuck with superglue. I feel it in EVERY step. This constant panic is now my NORMAL. My body is a sellout and my brain is an asshole, and because of you, I end up concentrating on breathing all the time.

It’s like I’m walking underwater against a tide that just keeps coming in and I’m pushing, crawling, fighting my way forward and never gaining a single foot of ground.

That first month after you died I was lost. A goner. I couldn’t find my way back to the surface no matter how hard I tried. In the first session with my therapist, I mentioned how we always used to write to each other whenever one of us was having issues, and now my issues have multiplied about a gazillion times, but I can’t tell you any of them.

My therapist said, Casey, when the world feels overwhelmingly huge—like it might swallow you alive—there’s a trick to shrinking it back down to a comfortable size.

I remember looking at her skeptically. There’s no universe I, Casey Jones Caruso, know of in which such a trick exists. And if it does, why has it eluded me for eighteen years?

But then she solemnly gave me some stellar advice.

She said, When the world is swallowing you whole, put all your fears in a journal. Then burn it. Set your fears free. Let the smoke pull all your anxieties up into the ether until you’re able to inhale.

So I did. And for the most part, I haven’t stopped. Sounds like an easy way out. I know.

It doesn’t always work, sometimes the anxiety even gets worse, but there’s a reason why our parents built a massive fire pit in the backyard last year, and a bigger reason why we have bonfires all year long now and probably always will.

Burning my journals is the only way I can still talk to you. Even in the dead middle of June.

I believe when the ashes rise into the sky somehow all those unheard words find their way to you. Those small flecks of carbon smash into your stardust and you can absorb what you’re missing. In those moments I can inhale. It’s magnificent.

Frankie and Ben write to you too. Not journals. But they do write notes now and again. On the last day of every month, we get together and watch our words burn in your tribute.

I know you’re laughing at the thought of us sitting around a fire in our washed-out turquoise Adirondack chairs, sweating buckets while flames torture us from below and the sun beats down on us from above. You know we’re missing you a lot because who in their right mind would purposely sit around a bonfire for hours during a Florida summer?

Trust me, we’re doing everything we can to carry on. And if this gets me closer to you, then all I gotta say is Burn Baby, Burn.

Usually I can cope, with a little wishful thinking and a lot of lighter fluid.

This time, though? I don’t think a fire at the end of the month is going to cut it.

Today has been one of the shittiest days in my entire life, and it’s only about to get worse. I’m writing this entry down in vain, because it’s my last chance of reclaiming my calm. If I don’t figure out a way to breathe again, I’m going to fade away.

I thought I knew tragedy. I thought I knew pain.

I was wrong.

So unbelievably stupidly wrong.

Love is never easy. You said so yourself when I first told you I caught the feels for Ben. But what if I told you I’m actually crushing on both of our best friends?

Yup.

That’s my star-exploding secret. Told you it was a massive one.

I still like Ben, but holy shit, Sammy, I like Frankie too.

What should I do? These are people who know who I was before . . .

People I love . . . more than myself.

Love is never easy. But dude, both? At the same time?

Well, let me just say here and now, it’s an absolute nightmare.