I found it by the tree after the fire.
Caleb watched as I unfolded it.
The paper was brittle, browned at one corner.
The message was only one sentence.
I don’t know your name, but when we’re big, I’ll ask you to dance so you know you got out.
My throat closed.
I looked at him.
He smiled, but it broke before it formed.
“I wrote it before my dad made me get in the car. I thought I’d see you again the next day. Then my parents moved me to my grandmother’s for a year. When we came back, I couldn’t find you. Later, when I did, I was too scared.”
I looked down at the note.
All those years, I had believed prom night was the first time a boy chose to see me.
But Caleb had seen me before the scars became my face.
