Why does moving on feel so heartbreaking?
He’s not my boyfriend, and we’re not in love.
He’s going to die today, and I’m going to live.
All this answers my question.
We’re not going to get the chance to become boyfriends who fall in love.
His journey ends here, and I’ll keep going until I can’t.
Living doesn’t feel so heartwarming in this moment.
Valentino takes the camera from my hands. “Let’s get a photo of you visiting your parents.”
I don’t fight him. This is a memory I’ll be able to share with Dalma and the Youngs.
I turn to the construction site and stare, thinking about how twelve hours ago I was with Valentino in Times Square telling him about my ties to 9/11 and now I’m here for the first time since my life changed.
In my head, I rebuild the towers, level by level, window by window, and once I finish, I watch the airplanes that crashed into the buildings fly overhead instead, and my parents walk out the front door, along with every other soul that died, and go home.
That’s how that day should’ve ended.
Unfortunately, my memories are stronger than my imagination.
Many didn’t go home.
The airplanes didn’t stay in the sky.
The towers collapsed.
Then came my life unraveling. Sleepless nights. Screaming. Jumping at every doorbell thinking it would be my parents covered in ash. The stories I told myself. Skipping school. Funerals with empty caskets and the eulogy I never delivered. Pure anger. The guardianship paperwork. Saying goodbye to my first home. Starting over in the brownstone. Pure sadness. Giving DNA samples to test against discovered remains. Dreaming about where my parents would want their ashes scattered. Thinking I might keep their ashes next to me forever, even if one speck was found. Too many condolences when I returned to school. Guilt when I laughed for the first time. Totally lost and trying to find myself in stories. Shame for having a crush. Regret for not coming out. Not going to Ground Zero on the one-year anniversary or the year after or the year after or the year after or the year after or the year after or the year after or the year after.
Now I’m here, alive—not always well, but alive.
I’ll keep standing tall for my parents, and living the kind of life they would’ve loved to have watched me live.
Scarlett Prince
8:59 a.m. （Mountain Standard Time） The pilot died of a heart attack, and if it weren’t for Death-Cast, it’s possible he would’ve taken down the entire plane with him. This is Scarlett’s second near-death this summer, and while she feels for the pilot’s family, above all, she feels for her own. It’s as if her heart is being shredded because if Death-Cast was right about the pilot, then maybe that means they’ll be right about her brother. No matter the outcome, it’s been urgent that she reaches Valentino. This is what she’s told the investigators and officers who relayed the news of the pilot to all the passengers who thankfully released her ahead of everyone else so she could get a head start.
Scarlett arrives at the customer service counter, gasping for breath.
“I need the next flight to New York. Death-Cast has called my brother.”
Valentino
12:00 p.m.
In one precious moment your life can change.
You can go from being an only child to a twin brother. You can start running and never stop. You can find your passion. You can almost become an only child again. You can come out of the closet. You can land the gig of your dreams. You can move to a new city. You can meet a boy. You can say goodbye to your future when Death-Cast calls.