Walking back into the halls of North Davis High, I feel like I'm not returning as Ella, but as Shadow Ella, the living ghost girl. The thought feels like a paper cut on my heart. I wish I were a ghost. Maybe then I could stretch across the realms and actually still talk to Hayley. Tell her the important things.
Like the fact that Albert Wonsky now has her locker. She'd groan and say something like Please, please rescue my pictures of Pedro Pascal before my husband is drowned in anime porn, and I would laugh and tell her, Sorry, too late.
I'd tell her the dent is still there. The one from when I kicked a locker after getting a B in Latin. And so is the dent she kicked right next to it. "For plausible deniability," she had said. "Not what that means," I'd said back.
I'd tell her there's still pink birthday candle wax smeared in the alcove by the music room. The one where Sawyer Hawkins and I had crouched, grinning madly as we jumped out with balloons and a lit cupcake to scream, "Happy birthday!"
Sawyer.
His name feels like a fist twisting my stomach. I can't think about him today. It's already too much. If I do, my rib cage will crack all over again.
Which is why this is the exact moment Sawyer walks into view. There he is, at the end of the hall, towering above Mike Lim as they discuss something that has Sawyer's handsome face breaking out into a crooked grin.
It hits me so hard, I have to stop walking. I lean against a wall and clutch my books so tightly that the words calculus i will probably be embossed into my sternum for days.
As if he can sense my presence, Sawyer suddenly glances in my direction. I stop breathing. For the first time since the funeral, I'm seeing Sawyer's soft brown eyes.
Except there's nothing soft about the look he's giving me.
Sawyer, the only boy I've ever known to celebrate month anniversaries with tiny, perfect gifts, who happily supplied us with popcorn and Sprite throughout an entire Twilight marathon when Hayley felt sick, who loved my best friend as much as I ­did . . . 
That Sawyer is currently shooting me a look of such fury that I instantly feel like puking.
I knew it. He blames me.
I should hold his gaze. I should let his judgment sear me. It's what I deserve, for what I stole from him. From her.
But instead, I whirl around, swallowing a sob, ready to sprint down the hall, out of school, maybe forever. But I end up slamming directly into Mr. Wilkens.
"Oof! Easy, there, tiger!" The school psychologist stumbles back, his hands shooting out to grasp my shoulders and keep me from falling.
"God, I'm so sorry," I choke out, mortified.
"No, no, Ella, you're fine. I'm fine." He ducks his chin, trying to catch my eye. "Hey. Hey. I'm glad we bumped into each other. How are you?"
I shrug, not trusting my voice.
"That well, huh?" Mr. Wilkens is usually clean shaven, but he has some scruff along his jaw. His typically bright blue eyes look smudged today, the color of bruises. Maybe he's one of those counselors who actually cares about his students. Maybe he's sad this morning too.
It's a nice thought.
"Ella," he says, "I know today is hard. And I hope you know I'm here for you." He looks like he wants to say more, but the bell rings, interrupting his thought. "Ah, saved by the bell." He laughs. "Don't be late to class. We'll talk soon, okay?"
He watches me walk away, concern furrowing his brow. It's so kind, how he's worried. How he wants to help. Don't bother, Mr. Wilkens, I should tell him. Save your effort and time for students who aren't lost causes. Students who deserve it.
Students who didn't kill their best friends.

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Excerpted from Everything We Never Said by Sloan Harlow
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