Seven Ways to Lose Your Heart Read Online Free PDF

wanted to try pestering? Or did you just come in here to make my already shitty day even worse?”
    The words spew from my mouth like the bile that came up after I suffered from the norovirus last spring. Not pretty. Not even human. My face heats up, and I’m pretty sure I’m beet red from my forehead to the tips of my fingers. Kennedy says nothing. Instead, his face pales slightly and he turns back to the work in front of him.
    “I wasn’t trying to make your day worse. I was just trying to make you laugh. You’ve seemed stressed lately,” he says quietly, staring intently at the white photography paper in front of him.
    He’s noticed? Why was he paying attention to me anyway? When I was in the hospital, I asked for him every day. Every. Single. Day. But he never came. If he didn’t care when we were best friends, why would he care when we don’t even know each other anymore?
    My throat goes thick. All stopped up with everything the old me would have told him in an instant back before the accident. Things I haven’t really been able to talk to anyone about. Sometimes, I think it’s not the accident that almost destroyed me; it was losing him.
    Judging from the easy nature of his conversation, the honking, and the pathetic attempts at flirting, it’s obvious our separation didn’t affect him nearly as much as it did me. I clear my throat and shrug, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing he got to me. “Stressed? Not really. Not about anything important. Just stuff,” I reply, trying to sound casual. I almost pull it off. Almost. I can’t stop my hands from shaking as I pick up the tongs to grab my picture from the solution. Kennedy reaches over and gently takes the tongs from my trembling hands. He shifts the photo I’m developing, so the solution touches all of it, consuming it, waking it into existence.
    I clench and unclench my fists at my sides, feeling stupid as I stand around and watch Kennedy pick up my photo and clip it on the clothesline hanging above our heads. It’s of a row of overflowing trash cans from the week the roads flooded and the trash men couldn’t get to us.
    I don’t know how to stand around and just watch someone work. There’s something about knowing that Kennedy is touching my pictures, my art, that feels like standing in the middle of a room completely naked. Like somehow a bunch a trash cans will reveal just how much I missed him when he left. I reach up a hand to grab another picture, but it continues to shake. Bad. Like I suddenly have epilepsy. Kennedy notices out of the corner of his eye, but for some reason, he doesn’t say anything. He places my second photograph in the solution without a word.
    The room feels too small. Too dark. Too intimate. I take a step back from the counter. There’s nothing I want more in the world than to leave, but I know I can’t.
    Kennedy looks back at me, and his forehead furrows. He reaches down into the pocket of his hoodie and pulls out his iPhone. He throws it at me, and somehow, I catch it, cradling it against my chest. I raise an eyebrow. Afraid that if I attempt to ask him why he threw it at me, I would tell him everything. About my grandmother. About how stressful it’s been since the twins came. About Jason. I would forget what we are and remember who we used to be.
    And he doesn’t deserve that.
    Kennedy takes a step toward me, and my whole body stiffens. He notices. God, is there anything this kid doesn’t pick up on today? He hesitantly reaches out his hand, and I place the iPhone in it, careful not to touch him.
    Like I said, the room is too small. Too dark. Too intimate.
    “Here, you listen. I’ll finish this up,” he says quietly. He takes a step closer to me, our toes touching. I can barely swallow. He’s a man now. That much is obvious as he towers above me. When did he get so tall? From best friends to strangers. From children to adults. It’s all new and weird, and I don’t know how to act. And if there