Elise gave me things before she left.

  A book with my name written in her handwriting on the inside cover. A small ceramic thing she said reminded her of me. A photo of the two of us from a trip, framed.

  I accepted them the way you accept things from someone you love. I didn’t read anything into it.

  She told me she was going away. Somewhere far. I told her I was here for whatever she was figuring out and she looked at me in a way I thought about afterward for a long time. Like I’d said something that landed somewhere deep.

  She leaves. The texts slow down. Then stop.

  I sit with it. I tell myself she’s just settling somewhere new. Getting her footing. People go quiet when they’re finding their footing.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  She doesn’t come back around.

  I put her things in a box. Not to pack them away, just to keep them together. I put the box on the high shelf where I keep things that matter.

  I mention her to my mom once, a few months later. We’re at the kitchen table and I say there was this friend of mine, the best friend I’ve had, and she gave me things before she left and then I never heard from her again.

  I watch my mom’s face when I say it.

  Something happens there. Something small and fast that my mom doesn’t let finish. She reaches for her cup.

  “That’s hard,” my mom says. “Some people need to disappear for a while.”

  “Yeah.” I look at my cup. “I just. She was my best friend. And I still don’t know why.”

  My mom is quiet.

  “She knew you loved her,” she says. “I’m sure she knew.”

  I nod.

  We don’t talk about it again.

  But sometimes I take the box down. I hold the things in it. I press my palm flat against the outside before I put it back.

  Where did you go, I think. I hope you’re okay. I hope someone is taking care of you.

  The box stays on the shelf.

  I go back to my life.