That boy does not exist anymore.
By sophomore year, the meteorology charts were rolled up and shoved in the back of a closet. The telescope his grandparents gave him for his birthday sat in the garage, its lens cracked. Liam’s new collection was more efficient: empty pill bottles, crumpled foil, a roster of phone numbers for people who would never ask how he was doing, only what he had. He lost weight, then more weight. His skin took on the pale, translucent quality of something that lives under a rock. The light in his eyes did not go out. It was replaced by something else: a constant, frantic calculation. Where is the next one coming from? How much money is left in my wallet? Who owes me a favor? a boy who lost himself to drugs
And somewhere, in a middle school somewhere in America, there is another boy with clear eyes and a working volcano. He has no idea that the path he is on is not paved with poor choices but with pain, with loneliness, with a pill that promises to make everything better. He does not know that the road to losing yourself is not marked by villains and needles, but by the quiet, seductive whisper of relief. That boy does not exist anymore
There is a photograph of him from the seventh-grade science fair. He is grinning, holding a volcano that actually works, red vinegar and baking soda frothing over the rim. His eyes are clear, curious, full of a light that hasn’t yet learned to be afraid. That boy—let us call him Liam—was a collector of things: insects, constellations, the names of clouds. He wanted to be a meteorologist, or maybe a geologist, or perhaps a poet. The future was a wide, open field, and he was running through it. Liam’s new collection was more efficient: empty pill