I see her eyes widen with the memory of something painful and I pull her head in to meet mine, ready to kiss her, but she pulls away. Disappointed, I sit up, pulling my legs into me and looking up at the sky.

“What are we, Ophelia?”
Sle looks at me, quizzically, then shakes her head and looks at the trampoline below her, running her finger along its surface. “I dunno, I thought we were—”
“Ophelia.”

I don’t want to get angry at her. I look at her again, her face now buried in her arms.
I don’t want to be angry, but when she gets like this, I feel so out of her world, so isolated; I feel like she doesn’t want to be with me at all.

I run my thumb over my wrist and remember all those times I felt like this before. I could never tell her, and maybe she wouldn’t listen, wrapped up in her own world like this. I peek under my wristband at the thin, freshly set scab and sigh.

There’s a sudden impact at my back, and I feel Ophelia’s arms draped around my shoulders.
“Don’t leave me either, Henry.”