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an angel in your sense of the word…
                  The sentence plays through my head in fast-forward. Please, God. Show me if this is right. I need you to show me if this is him . I silently say that prayer twice in my mind, sending it, filled with hope, to Him.
                  Not a second later do I see the image of a blonde haired boy in my mind; combing through the medicine cabinet, sobbing. Just like in my dream from the previous night, I watch as he swallows the handful of pills before sinking to the floor, clutching a picture frame close to his chest. However, this time I can see his face perfectly. No longer shrouded with a hazy cloud, I can see that it is Tristan, cowering on the floor, tears soaking his hair- which was shaggy and much blonder. This time, the room doesn’t fade to black. Instead, I watch a ghostly image of myself kneel down beside him, stroking his hair back from his face as three onlookers watch me sob with him.
                  I gasp, coming back to the present. Tristan is still sitting before me, not having shifted an inch from his position on the bench. Looking at me, still smirking, his eyes dance. “Expect the unexpected, Miss. Prince . Isn’t that what Mr. Morrison told us today? Or where you too busy daydreaming during his lecture,” he teases, voice refreshingly light.
                  I gape at him, mouth open like an imbecile. Well, if I asked for a sign, I guess that was it. It felt like I was in the bathroom with him for hours, watching him sob on the floor. But it must have actually been mere seconds…
                  Was that the future? Is that what I’m seeing? No, I looked like my sixteen-year-old self in the vision, and it felt like I was watching something from the past, as if my internal clock registered a change in time. He looked slightly younger in the vision, but not by much. Seconds tri ckle by and I continue to stare at him, trying to comprehend the confusion swirling inside me. I don’t want to be confused. I want to understand, to make it better. But what do I know about rebuilding? If anyone needs help, it’s me. My mental state is not at its peak, and if my vision was from Tristan’s past, then he needs stable people in his life.
                  Best solution to a problem you don’t understand- ignore it and deal with it later, something my parents have taught me well over the years. So, I close my mouth, look away from Tristan, and sit on the pebble-filled ground.
                  “Don’t sit on the ground, Katherine. Here, I’ll move over,” Tristan says, making room for me on the bench. When my name came from his lips, my body tingled, sending a surprising shiver up my spine.
                  Wordlessly, I move to sit beside him on the warm concrete, heated by the sun. Its rays hit me in the face, blinding my eyes until I turn my head and the uncomfortable brightness i s diminished, thanks to Tristan’s head blocking the s un, shielding me.
                  “Thanks,” I say quietly.
                  “Anytime,” he re plies . “So, what did Mr. Morrison have to say to you? He’s usually the in-your-face type of guy.”
                  “What did you mean? When you said it was your first day back?” I asked, avoiding his question while asking one of my own.
                  He shifts farther away from me and the blinding sun struck me wi th its ferocity. Again, he moves , blocking it once more.
    “I transferred schools for a while, trying something new,” he says with a wave of his hand. “I didn’t seem to fit in at the other place , so I came back here,” an almost nonexistent chuckle escapes him as he goes quiet agai n, and I feel reluctance soak through the suddenly thick air.
                  It is in that moment that I feel his insecurity, his distrust; obviously he’s hiding