Page 7 of The Last Love Story

Her eyes drop back to the screen. “Great idea, hon. Get some rest. Big day tomorrow!”

I close the door and stand in the dark hallway, my hand still gripping the doorknob.

Big day tomorrow.

She’s been saying that since I started school. It’s never once been true.

But I guess now that someone thinks I’ve been lying about my age, she might finally be right.

Tomorrow, I could very well be arrested.

I slip my tablet from my pocket:

What do you want?

I’m barely into my boring gray bedroom before it beeps with a reply.

We just want to talk.

I stare at the pixelated words. There’s a “we” here, then. It’s not just some random person wanting my ration card or my train pass. I try to ignore the heartbeat shaking my fingers when I type my reply:

My birthday is in September. Good night.

But I can’t sleep, not now. Not with their message ringing in my head, making it feel like I can’t breathe.

I slip out into the narrow hallway. The faint sound of my parents’ shows floats out of the bedroom and into the dark, a strange soundtrack as I pull the string to the attic ladder. I press a button on my pocket tablet screen, lighting the flashlight app as I climb with one hand.

The lockbox is easy enough to find. I remember it from when we moved, when we uprooted our lives into this strange After; it was one of the things that my mom said was “important.” And back then, my mom didn’t seem to think anything mattered anymore.

I try my birthday—nothing. My mother’s. My father’s. And, heart thudding, I try today’s date: 0–3–0–9. The lock clicks and the lid squeaks open. That should be answer enough, but I don’t want to believe it’s true. My fingers are shaky as I find the yellowing paper. Back when I was born, Alba was new. My mom always told me that, unlike digital files, which are generated from AI and can sometimesbe inaccurate, or fully hallucinations, paper has truth to it. Printed things can’t lie.

All I have to do is find my birth certificate. Then I can show whoever is texting me, and whoever else, that I actually have six months left.

The edges of the paper are yellowing and old, and I know the folder I’m looking for. In the Before times, my mom kept these papers in the file cabinet, and I remember her scolding me for spilling blue paint into the open drawer. My mom was able to pat them dry, but the edges were permanently discolored.

My fingers press against the edges of the documents: my mom’s birth certificate. My dad’s. Their marriage license. My fingers still. My birth certificate isn’t in here.

I start from the beginning and run through everthing again, my heart hammering.

Where is my birth certificate?

Beep.I’m growing to hate that sound. I look down and my heart stops. But this time, it’s like the person on the other side of the message is answering my question.

It’s a picture of an old, yellowing piece of paper. My stomach feels hollow and twisty as I peer closer, because I recognize something on it. The slight blue along the side—this is my original birth certificate.

And there, right on it... March 9.

I sit back on my heels, lose my balance, and land on my ass.

They lied to me. I breathe out through my mouth and in through my nose, just like they tell us to during movement hour at school.

I’m eighteen.

Happy eighteenth birthday, Ripley.

A floor below me, my parents are watching their separate shows.

For a moment, I wonder what it would be like if they didn’t come home that day all those years ago totally changed. I remember Before, when I was a kid and their days left them exhilarated, cheeks flushed as they talked about their jobs and the real change they could make. When home was on the other coast, in a big marble building at the top of grand stairs. I remember how our neighbors were all fighting for a better country, a better world.