Laura was accepted to a college three states away. She packed her room in cardboard boxes, erasing herself from the house where she’d grown up. On the last night, she walked to the oak tree behind the football field. The bark had grown over most of the carving, but she could still make out the K and the L , wound together like vines.
Laura froze.
“Show me,” Katrina whispered.
By senior year, Laura had stopped writing it. The phrase felt too heavy, too raw. She’d accepted that some loves were meant to stay on the underside of desks—invisible, permanent, but never touched. Katrina had started dating a boy named Mike who played lacrosse and didn’t know how to spell “algebra.” lauraloveskatrina
Laura laughed too loudly. “It’s a nice name.” Laura was accepted to a college three states away
Katrina reached out, took Laura’s hand, and turned it over. On Laura’s palm, still smudged from where she’d traced the carving, were the faint red remains of marker. From that first day. Or maybe from every day after. The bark had grown over most of the