We provided no progress. There was nothing to hint that Atlas wasn't alive, or that he'd been seen somewhere. All records of him were showing that he should be gone. This only made me feel less guilty because now there's nothing for me to tell Eleonora. Atlas is gone. The only thing left to find out is where this letter came from, which is why this is the only approach we could find.

Kal came over again on Friday morning.

The doorbell rings. I forgot I even had one. El has her own key and no one ever comes over other than her and the girls. I rush to open it and meet a disheveled Kal. He's holding his own laptop, rushing past me to take his rightful place on my desk.

"Hey," he says.

"Why are you here?"

He looks at me for a moment, then shrugs. "You never gave me a time, so I thought it was a 'same time next day' sort of thing."

"Next week."

He places his laptop down, rearranging my desk to his liking. "What?"

"People usually say 'same time next week'. At least give it a minute, dude!"

He doesn't say anything for a long time. I observe him carefully as he pulls a spiral notebook out of his backpack. It's filled with all kinds of writings. He must be writing down his findings, whatever those are. "Coffee?" he says, smiling my way.

I sigh and go fill the pot with tap water.

Kal continues to rearrange his new workplace, putting some of his things on the desk and moving away from the candles and decorations I placed. He drinks his coffee and then asks for more, clicking away on his laptop while saying nothing.

"Did you find anything?" I say. "I see you wrote down some things."

"Just ideas," he says. "Of places to start. There's nothing here that indicates that Atlas was sighted anywhere in the past year."

I guess a part me was hoping for a different result. After all this time, my brain has to know by now that Atlas really is gone. So why was I disappointed when Kal told me he didn't find anything? I didn't even want to do this kind of research. I told him that there's no way he's alive, that this letter could be meant for somebody else.

"It has your address on it," is all Kal said.

He spent three hours doing god know's what on my laptop.

"What are you looking for?" I asked him.

He turned around slowly. "Evidence that entails him faking his own death and moving to Alaska or something."

"Atlas hates the cold," I muttered under my breath.

I'm sitting on my bed, watching as Kal continues to mess with my emotions. This must be just any other day for him. I wonder how many times he forced himself into someone else's life just to gather inspiration, and if that even helped him at all. He's sitting here, playing detective. I'm not even sure what qualifies him to be doing this. He knows nothing about Atlas—not even what he looks like—and yet, he's looking up information about him as if he cares at all.

He can simply walk out of this and not care. He wouldn't even feel so guilty as we don't know each other well enough to feel obliged to help out in any case. But me . . . I'm stuck here in this awful situation. I'll have to find out something myself, or sit here and pretend I never got this letter and that life is fine.

Kal takes a ten-minute break, rummaging through my fridge for something good to eat. I would order pizza, but I don't want him here for too long, and I don't think I can eat anything right now. Kal pulls out two pieces of toast and begins to fill it up with turkey slices, cheese, potato chips, and all kinds of sauces. I watch him as he eats the whole thing in less than a minute before washing his hands in the bathroom sink and carefully drying it before taking a seat in his chair again.

There's a boy in my room, I think. I've been sitting in my bed for nearly three hours, watching this stranger as he surfs the net. What the hell am I doing?

"It's nine," I say, but he doesn't so much as turn around to acknowledge me. "It's late. You've been doing this for hours and you have nothing. Go home, Kal."

It was finally over and I managed to push him out of the door, telling him I have things to do. He gave me a knowing look that said, "Neither of us has any plans for the next five-hundred years."

I have plans three weeks from now, I thought, with Eleonora. That's what I call progress.

When he was finally gone, the room suddenly felt more serene. It's quiet and empty. Kal had taken up the whole place. Not just with his belongings scattered all over and him rearranging my desk and going through my fridge as if he owns this place. His aura is huge and vibrant. He's loud, even as he sits silently typing. Everywhere I look, he's there. Present and grinning as if there's something going on that only he knows. It's driving me insane how he brings me very little discomfort.

I collapse on the bed after turning off the lights. I'm not even tired yet. It's too early for me to be asleep, but my brain is begging for rest. A long few days had just passed and I spent most of my hours thinking up a tension headache. By the time I'm asleep, it's finally subsided, and I get a dreamless night. My favorite kind.

Friday night I spend cleaning out my apartment while talking on the phone with Wren about this new guy she met at work. Unlike me, she has a positive relationship with dating. I'm the kind of person who can't go on a date with someone unless I know the person well and see myself getting serious with him in the future. This makes it hard as most people my age prefer enjoying their time more than planning out the rest of their lives.

Wren is telling me about the smoldering thing he does with his eyes and how his grin makes her smile. She says that their hands brushed the other day while they were in the elevator and how he blushed when she asked him to go home with her the end of the day. She skips the gory details and I let her rant, wondering if feeling this way again is even a possibility.

Atlas and I spend most of our relationship in high school exchanging looks. He was always too shy and hesitant to make the first move, not knowing how I felt about him and if I was ready to be in a relationship after recently losing my parents. He caved in eventually, but most of our time together was subtle. He'd hold my hand during lunch break in the cafeteria while Wren was ranting—as she's doing now—and it would last me a lifetime.

As Wren continues to speak, trying to describe the exact shade of green this guy's eyes are, all I can think about is what the future holds for me. Every day is a drag. I wake up and all I want is for the day to end. I go to sleep and all I do is hope I don't get another nightmare that keeps me awake for hours because that only makes the day seem longer. My friends are enjoying every minute, wanting it to linger, while all I think about is how to make the time pass quicker.

She's talking and I'm begging myself not to cry. That's one too many times this week.

Wren doesn't notice. She's happy. I can feel the smile in her speech, her voice going up and squealing every time she remembers a minor detail, like his wristwatch or the smell of his perfume lingering on her pillow.

He looks at her and she wants to throw up. He touches her and she never wants it to stop.

There's a teardrop on my shirt. Just one.

I manage to contain myself as I tell Wren that I'll call her later. She should go call this guy now and make plans for tonight. She deserves it.

What's his name again? I can't even remember. She must've repeated it a million times.

I sigh.

Is it even possible, after all this pain, for me to experience any joy at all? Or is it too hopeful of me? Too selfish? If the opportunity came up, I think I'd be a nuisance.