by Emily Rapoza

When the sun stretched its fingers over the world, we were still awake. The night was a blur in my mind: laughter, kissing, music, tears. I slept until noon that day, and when I woke up, I realized I had never been happier. I heard you in the kitchen, and the smell of eggs floated through the house. Three months later, you were gone. Out of all the fading memories I have of you, the ones I dream about, the ones I think about when I'm driving alone, I'll never forget the way you lied to me.


Emily Rapoza has written stories since she could hold a pencil. She's a girl from all over, but currently lives in Pendleton, Oregon.