Listen—please. I’m from the future. I don’t have much time.
You’ll meet a girl. Pretty. She once won a beautiful baby contest at a mall. Her hair flows all the way down her back. She wears it loose, in a low ponytail, or in that single loop girls do. Never dyed, never straightened, never curled. It’s virgin hair—and so is she, when you meet her.
At sixteen, she’ll call an ex-boyfriend to come over. Her only reason: it was time.
Her teeth are even straighter than her hair—braces once, long gone. She speaks in T-shirts: Happy Bunny slogans, Metallica, Marilyn Manson, Tool. They’re either skin-tight or swallowed-whole oversized. Her pants? Always baggy. You’ll learn she’s insecure about her hips—always hiding, always deflecting. Swimming in board shorts and a string bikini top, she pulls at the fabric. Unsure about her ass. Or her chin. There's a little dimple she calls a “butt chin,” but really, it’s just a cute dimple. You’ll press your thumb to it.
She has a brother she calls “Beef” or “Meat.” Never his real name. In time, you'll call him that too.
Her stepmom works at an occult shop. Once, you’ll go together. Crystal balls. Tarot cards. Dried herbs in glass jars. You’ll buy a green stone ring.
This girl you’ll meet will be vegetarian, then pescatarian, then back to meat again.
The house is a zoo: cats, hamsters, spiders, birds. A parrot named Jakken-Bakken that sings “PoooooooooooooooOooooop” when it poops. You’ll try not to laugh, but you will. Every time.
Also at her house, there’s only milk, tap water, and canned Diet Coke. A whole fridge shelf for the cans. You’ll notice no one drinks the water. Or the milk. “A drink” always means Diet Coke.
There’s a thick pink scar down her right foot, from toe to ankle. Yet she walks with confidence. She eats green peppers straight from the plant, unwashed. Whole. Crunches seeds like bones. Eats ramen dry—crushed in the bag with the seasoning shaken in. She’s chill like rivers are chill—and you’ll wade in deep enough to drown.
Only eyeliner and mascara. Naturally pretty. Never boy-crazy, but she almost always has a boyfriend. Like the twenty keychains on her belt loop, most of them are decorative.
She finds you funny. Laughs every time you mess up. Thinks it’s all an on-purpose joke. You don’t ever correct her.
You’ll be best friends. Inseparable. Your families will vacation together, do joint Christmases. You’ll get drunk for the first time together. First tattoos, too. You'll go Downtown. Walk the canal. Take off your shoes. Stick your bare feet in the dirty water. Fish will nibble your toes. Each fish will soon have a name. You’ll sneak into cemeteries at night and lie on baby graves, staring up at the sky, asking questions no one answers. You’ll share concerts, showers, beds. Your lives will braid together like her wet hair.
Listen to me. I’m from the future. And this is an important warning.
When you meet her, she wants to become a pilot—but she has astigmatism. Maybe an airplane mechanic. When she tells you this, she’s never even been on a plane.
Her first flight, she’ll be sitting next to you. She’ll narrate every sound, every rattle and shift:
“That’s the wheels going up.”
“That’s the flap they move to turn.”
That trip, she’ll see the ocean for the first time. You’ll be there, watching her run barefoot into the waves, scar glinting pink against the salt.
Her next flight will be to the Middle East—
As a truck driver in the Air Force. Nails perfect shooting marks. Wears her hair in a regulation bun and writes letters home on loose-leaf paper that smells faintly of smoke.
She’ll die on Memorial Day. Afghanistan. A bomb. A quick death, painless—at least that’s what they’ll say. She’ll be 22. There won’t be much of the body left.
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I don’t mean to upset you. I’m here to warn you.
Run toward this heartbreak. Don’t flinch. Don’t hesitate.
Every minute will be worth it. Just to know her.
This will happen. It has to happen.
I wanted to warn you.
I know how it ends—because I lived it.
So please: treasure every moment.
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