Secrets That We Won’t Tell
FEBRUARY 7TH, 2020
Arlo slid the notebook to Luna. An arrowhead tainted his skin, pointing right at her. It’s saying, Your turn. Her turn to write down what happened last night.
Arlo’s statement was two sentences scribbled over the light blue lines. He jumped off the bridge after me and Luna tried to stop him. I tried to reach out for him, but it was too late.
Luna looked up at him. He gripped his midnight colored hair in between his veiny, pale hand. The contrast was saturated under the accusing yellow light. The policewoman stood beside him. She was too close, too suspicious. She probably smelled the fear radiating from him, because Luna smelled it too.
His muscles were tense, and they were saying something—something that Luna could not repeat. Arlo was depending on her. His leg shook out of control next to hers. His blue jeans with the messy blue pen marks lightly scratched her knee. For a second—a tiny blink—she looked into his eyes. They were sunken and dull, yet alert and green as ever. He was tired from the night before. Luna’s shoulders were heavy, and she could hardly sit up straight. She didn’t steal any sleep from last night either. That would be two crimes in less than twenty-four hours.
The pen was like silk in her equally pale hand and like Arlo, her statement was sweet and short.
He didn’t have any friends—no wait—his mom was dying—no, that’s not it either. He was depressed. There was nothing that either of them could do. He jumped off the bridge and four seconds letter, the sound of Adam’s bones cracking against the damp concrete livened up the darkest part of the world.
She gave Arlo another look. She wasn’t going to let him down.
