JACKSON, AGE 29

The sound of an email coming to my phone wakes me up in the morning, dragging me out of a dream that I'd been deeply buried in.

It's September in Chicago, and still hot as ever outside. This time of year, the beginning of school, always brings back vivid memories for me. No matter how many years pass, every September always brings me to Clifton-Fullerton hall at DePaul during my freshman year.

I had been dreaming about April. I don't let my thoughts wander to her very often anymore, but I have no control over my dreams. They're not like the movies, where she comes and talks to me and tells me that she's fine and she's watching over me or anything like that. Most of the time, she doesn't even talk.

The dream that I'm trying to wake up from is still fresh in my mind. I'd been in a big crowd, walking aimlessly. I hadn't known I was looking for her until I saw her - saw the back of that auburn head bobbing through the sea of people. I'd called out for her as loudly as I could, and she'd turned around with a smile on her face, her eyes lit up. She looked exactly like she did ten years ago, before she got sick. Spunky, clear-eyed, and vivacious. She started running towards me, never breaking eye contact, but there were too many people. Every time she got closer, somehow she didn't move at all. My frustration had started to build because even as we pushed our way through the crowd, we couldn't reach one another.

And then I woke up to that little 'bing!'

Sometimes I don't even see her face. Last week, I had a dream where we were in formalwear for some reason, and all I saw were her shoulders as she was in a strapless green dress. She looked fantastic, and even though she never turned around, I had known it was her. Her presence was enough.

'Bing!' The email tone comes again, reminding me that I have one to check. I roll over on my side and reach across my empty bed, lifting my phone from where it was charging on the nightstand.

I yawn as I roll onto my back again. "Who in their right mind could be emailing me…" I say under my breath, unlocking my phone and clicking on the envelope icon to open my inbox. When I see who the sender is, my stomach practically falls to my feet. It's my board exam results.

I sit up in bed, my back against the headboard, and notice that my hands are shaking. I took my boards two days ago and have been waiting for the results, trying to push it out of my mind so I wouldn't drive myself crazy. And now they're here. Once I click on this email, I'll know if I'm a board certified surgeon or if I have to go into the hospital today with my tail between my legs.

I let a long breath out of my puckered lips and click on the email, closing my eyes for a second before reading it. I give myself a few seconds, then open them to read the result.

I passed.

I gasp. "I passed!" I say aloud, though I'm alone in my house. I pump my fists into the air and can't keep the smile off my face as I celebrate. I feel so relieved, and I need to tell someone.

I scroll through the contacts in my phone, not really coming across anyone who I want to tell first. I keep scrolling, finding my way to the end of the list, and feel a frown begin on my forehead.

I don't want to tell my mom, Mark, or my coworkers. I don't want to tell Richard or Maggie, or anyone else for that matter.

There's one person who I want to share this news with. One person who had all the faith in the world in me, the only person I can't tell. The one person who I want to gush about it with isn't here to listen and hasn't been for a very long time.

A moment of pause drifts over me as I hold still, staring ahead at nothing. When big milestones happen in my life, she's always the first person I think of. She's the one who I want to share it with - the happy, the sad, the momentous things. It doesn't feel right that she's not here to smile that big, cheesy smile and throw her arms around me, probably knocking me back on the bed, smothering me in kisses.

It's been ten years, and it still doesn't feel like she's really gone.

I lower my phone to rest in my lap and let myself wonder what she might be like now. She would be a teacher, that's for sure. If she were alive, there's no doubt that we would be married. There's no one else I'd want as my wife. Maybe we'd have a kid. Maybe more than one, I don't know. She would've made an amazing mother.

She would've made an amazing anything .

I don't let myself think about her because it's too indulgent. Once I start to think about her, I start to miss her. And when I miss her, I become removed from my life now, the one I'm living. And she had told me, before she left, that she didn't want me to do that.

It's hard, though. Living in the past is so much easier, so much more beautiful, because she's still there. Stuck at 18, her memories are always there, waiting for me to come back to them.

And sometimes, I do. I remember the way her body felt in bed next to mine as I lie in my bed alone at night, warm and soft. I remember the soft way her hands would trace my facial features and her eyes would follow as they trailed over my skin. I remember how soft her voice would sound when she told me she loved me, and in how many ways she would show me. She didn't have to tell me. I knew. Of course I knew.

But I always wonder, still, to this day, if she knew how much I loved her.

I force myself out of bed with a smile on my face, shaking my head to clear it. I just passed my board exams! I'm not a resident anymore. I'm officially going to be an attending, and I can't wait.

I get ready quickly in the bathroom and pause for a moment inside the closet, letting my eyes graze over all of my clothes. I get dressed in something nice - dress pants and a button-up - and let my eyes fall on a shoebox on the top shelf that I haven't touched since I moved in. I stare at it for a while, contemplating, until I stand on my tiptoes and pull it down to hold it between my hands.

I wipe off the layer of dust on the top and blink hard as it settles in the air. I walk back into my bedroom and sit down in the chair in the corner, then lift the lid off.

Inside are a bunch of memories that hurt to relive. There are pictures scattered around the bottom of the box; selfies of April and me that I haven't looked at in years. I see us in front of Clifton, our faces red and sweaty from the heat. I see us both wrapped in the blanket she always wore at my soccer games, who knows where that disappeared to. I see us in fancy clothes after her second piano recital, the scarf on her bare head as her arms are wrapped around my waist. I think Karen took that one.

But most of all, I see us happy. And I can't stop staring.

I don't remember taking half of these pictures. Memories of her, especially the little things, have admittedly started to fade. I have to think for a second before I can remember how her voice sounded. How she smelled… I lost that one a long time ago.

But I can keep the sparkle in her green eyes, thanks to these photos. While she was alive, while we were together, had I been aware of the way she looked at me? Had I been aware of the fact that, in every single picture, I always managed to be touching her in some way?

I know I shouldn't be sitting here before work, looking at these. But now, I can't stop.

I come across a picture of her at the piano that I must have taken around the time that we met. She still has all her hair and she's concentrated on her hands, watching them instead of looking at the music. Her back is perfectly straight, her posture impeccable, and I recognize the surroundings as the practice room we always sat in.

I set the photo down but keep my fingers on it, closing my eyes and imagining how her music sounded.

I look back in the box again, chuckling as I pet the stuffed animal goat that she got me for the one Christmas we spent together. "Lovey," I say under my breath, remembering.

I move some photos to the side - one of us on the porch in Ohio, one blurry one of me on the soccer field, one of us decked out in DePaul garb on her bed - and find something I forgot I had. The Kepners gave it to me right after she died, before I went home to Boston.

The diamond and emerald hair clip. I pick it up and gently turn it this way and that in my hands, letting the light hit the jewels so they shine and glisten. I haven't seen this in forever; I squint my eyes shut and try to remember the last time she wore it, but I can't. I remember how it looked in her hair, but I can't remember the last time she put it on.

I set it back down, my stomach twisting. I don't like realizing that I've lost things about her. The fact that I've lived more of my life without her than with her makes me sick, though it shouldn't anymore. It's been ten years.

It's been ten years, yet I've found no greater love than the one we shared. I talk to a therapist once a week and still skirt the subject of April Kepner. Opening up is difficult, nearly impossible, though it never used to be. She cracked me open pretty much the second she met me. Now, for anyone else, I am a closed book.

I don't know what I'm waiting for. Her, maybe? I constantly tell myself to move on, that that's what she wanted me to do. But I can't. I'm holding onto the memory of her too tightly to go anywhere.

I swallow loudly and am about to replace the lid on the box when I see something glinting from inside it. I furrow my eyebrows and move more photos aside, then pull out something I thought I'd lost. It's the stethoscope from that same Christmas, looking as new as it did the day I opened it. My mouth gapes a bit as I let the light hit it, and see my name engraved on the bell.

Jackson Avery, M.D.

She never got to see me become one, but I've made it.

I keep it on my lap and close the lid of the box, setting it on my bed to take care of later. I carry the stethoscope with me, looped over my arm, as I walk through the house to the kitchen where I grab a banana. On the way there, I swipe my hand over the black grand piano and glance at the music on the stand - the latest piece I've been working on is called Laudate Dominum by Mozart, and it's giving me a significant amount of trouble. I only know one person who would know the right ways to help me.

I smile to myself as I look at the piano, eating my breakfast. If only April could see me now, see what music I'm playing. I've moved way beyond 'Itsy Bitsy Spider,' that's for sure.

I still have the beginner's book she gave me inside the bench, though.

When I walk out of the attendings' lounge at the hospital, I straighten my dark blue scrubs, lab coat, and sling my stethoscope on around my neck. I get a handful of congratulations as I walk through the halls, as I make my way to where I always do my rounds.

The oncology floor.

I clear my throat as I look at a tablet once I get off the elevator. One of my favorite patients is in today, 12-year-old Lila Patelli, for a round of chemo. I set the tablet down, go through my regular rounds, then head to her room. The same one she's always in.

I knock on the edge of the doorframe and see her staring ahead at nothing, knees bent up as she drums her fingers on them. She looks over at me with a bored, lackluster expression on her face. "Hey, Dr. Avery," she says.

"What's up, scrub?" I ask, making my way inside with a clipboard in hand. "How're you doing today?"

She shrugs. "Bored," she says, then holds up her phone. There are blue butterfly stickers on the back of it, and I notice she has a temporary butterfly tattoo on the inside of her wrist. "My phone died."

I sit down in a chair next to her bed and get comfortable, taking a deep breath as I situate. I usually don't sit in patient rooms. At least I haven't for a very long time.

"Well, I can keep you company," I say.

"You're wearing different colored scrubs today," she notices. "Why?"

"I find the dark blue brings out my beautiful eyes more," I say, and she rolls hers.

"You're annoying, Dr. Avery."

I laugh. "I'm kidding, I'm kidding. I passed my mother-freakin' board exams, Lila. So I'm board certified now."

She scrunches up her face at me. "Wait, you weren't before?" I shake my head no. "Then why the heck were you my doctor?"

I laugh and try to explain to her how it works, but she still seems skeptical.

"Whatever," she says, raising her eyebrows. "As long as you can make me better."

"We're getting there," I say, running my fingers down the stethoscope.

"Hey," she says, pointing at it. "That's different from the old gray one you used to have."

I look down at it, too. "I, uh, yeah," I say, flipping it up so I can see the engraving and she can, too. "This one was…" I pause and clear my throat. "A gift."

"Well, it's way better than what you had," she says. "That one was boring. This one's cute."

I chuckle. "Thanks."

She sighs after a few minutes pass. "I'm still bored," she tells me. "What can we do?"

I look over at her and rest my chin in my open palm. "I don't know," I say. I look at the far window, the TV mounted on the wall, the menu on the counter and let the memories come back. If just for today, I'll welcome her back in here with me.

Instead of Lila, I see April on the reclining chair, the DePaul hat on her head as she watches The Bold and the Beautiful, unamused, on the TV. I see her waking up from a long nap, her eyes finding me first. I see her on that chair, looking smaller for each appointment. Her bones becoming more pronounced, her skin more pallid, and her eyes more sunken.

I can still remember the way her cue ball head felt on my lips.

"Do you like stories?" I ask Lila, jolting back to reality. Suddenly, a blonde 12-year-old is on the chemo chair again, not the redhead who I had once loved. The redhead who I will always love.

Lila scoffs. "What am I, five years old?"

I roll my eyes and pretend to be annoyed with her. "Have a nice day, then," I say. "Being bored. Maybe you can draw out Candy Crush and play it by yourself." I start to get up, but her voice stops me.

"No, wait," she says. "Come on. Sure. Tell me a story."

I sit back down, pleased with myself. Suddenly, it's ten years earlier and I haven't lost her yet.

"You like love stories?" I ask Lila.

She gives me a look. "Do you…?" she asks.

"I do," I say, leaning forward a bit. "And I know a great one. You in?"

She smirks, though she tries to suppress it. "Sure," she says, laughing a little bit as she rolls her eyes.

I can practically see her - see April - sitting right next to Lila on that reclining chair, making those same facial expressions. She never wanted to give in and laugh at my stupid jokes, but she could never help herself. As long as she kept smiling, I kept making them.

I'd do anything to see that smile now. Hear that wild laugh, her head thrown back with her mouth wide open. Feel her hand tucked into mine or just know that she was nearby, close to me, where I could keep her.

I'd never let her go.

We hadn't known each other long. We didn't meet in the most conventional of circumstances or go about our relationship like a normal couple would. But it was enough. It was more than enough.

We were kids in love, but we both knew it was more than that. She made me feel things that I never knew were possible, and that I haven't felt since. Something about her was purely magic, and she showed me a small sliver of that while she was here.

She had been my soulmate, I know that now. And we were lucky to have each other for the time that we did. We could have done anything, but we chose to fall in love. Maybe we'll see each other again someday, somehow, but until then, she'll live through my memory.