He fights with his parents. They want him to finish at a private school. He wants to take his GED. Neither happens. He sinks deeper into depression, and he won’t leave his room, and he draws me again and again and again. And then he draws my Christmas present. I don’t know if I can handle reading about Christmas, but it’s coming anyway.

I pick a fight. I am cruel. I annihilate him.

He thought we’d be together for ever. Images of New England, a wedding, children, old age crumble into the background of a dark panel in which he’s curled on the ground in the foetal position. He tries to call me. I won’t answer. His devastation turns into fury. New Year’s Eve arrives, and he sits alone in his bedroom watching television. He thinks about our first date, just like I did. Brian calls his house shortly after midnight with the urgent message that I’m waiting for him at Kismet. There’s still time to make it.

I turn the page, fearing what I’ll find next.

Josh chooses not to go. He wants me to suffer in the way that I’ve made him suffer. It’s awful to read, though it’s no less than I deserved. But as the days pass, Josh realizes that he’s made a mistake. And as they continue to pass, it gets harder to call me. He’s afraid that now I will have given up on him for good.

And then…his na**d figure tumbles into space.

A completely black two-page spread. On the following page, no illustration, only my own words written in Josh’s beautiful handwriting: “SPACES…BREAKS…TO CONTEMPLATE THINGS…TO FIGURE OUT WHAT’S IMPORTANT…”

A series of near-identical panels are next, showing an excruciating passage of time. A certain truth is settling in. That one of the most hurtful things I said to him – that he passively campaigned for his own expulsion, because he couldn’t admit to his parents that he’d made a mistake in moving to France – only hurts so much because it’s true. And that the head of school and his ex-girlfriend had been telling him that for years, but it didn’t matter until he heard the words from the person who mattered the most. Me.

But he’s also still angry with me for invalidating his own feelings. He loves me, and I won’t let him. He decides that he has to prove it. He confesses to his parents that leaving home for Paris was a mistake, but that he’s ready for Vermont. He won’t mess it up this time. They say they’d like to believe him, but they’re concerned with his ability to see things through. An offer is put on the table. They’ll send him to Vermont if he can finish the project that means the most to him, the project that will also serve as his official portfolio for admission: this graphic memoir.

They understand that he’s been writing about his private life – and that some of it includes them. They give him their support anyway.

His parents are understanding and supportive about… a lot of things.

I’m reading faster now, flipping the pages more and more quickly, as Josh throws himself back into his work. He locks himself away in his room in order to reconnect with the world. Day and night, he makes the changes and pushes ahead. Pushes through. His resolve is admirable as he forces his way through the monotonous long hours and the renewed shooting pains in his right hand to bring his vision onto the page.

He signs up to take the GED and nails it in a weekend. He talks to St. Clair, learns of the engagement ring and the upcoming trip, and he marks the date on his calendar. But he marks it with the word Isla.

His mother sees it. She nods.

My heart is racing. The pages are no longer inked, they’re pencilled sketches. A month of hard work in January turns into two weeks of agonizing work in February. Doubt creeps back in. He considers cancelling his flight, but that’s when Hattie’s package arrives, and he’s overwhelmed and overjoyed, and it gives him the courage to press forward. He flies across the Atlantic. He meets his friends, and he takes them to Pizza Pellino for dinner, where he knows he’ll find Kurt and me. Because it’s Sunday.

I have now exited Josh’s real past and entered into what he hopes is his future.

The sketches get rougher. Kurt and I are at the restaurant, and Josh and his friends – St. Clair, Anna and Meredith – join us for dinner. Our table’s conversation is similar to what occurred earlier tonight, except that Josh is more vocal. He tells me it was important for me to meet his friends, because they’re the people that he chooses to have in his life. Not like the people at the Christmas party whom he deals with for his family’s sake. He wants me to be friends with his friends, too.

He asks me about Dartmouth, and I tell him that I was accepted. “I knew you would be,” he whispers. We watch the proposal, glancing at each other with hope and nervousness. We split apart from the others, he walks me home, and he hands me a copy of this manuscript. He tells me to call his phone when I’m done reading it.

I’m holding my breath. I can hardly turn the page…

There I am. I’m reading this book by lamplight. I finish it, call him, and he tells me that he’s on the corner outside of my window. His hands are tucked into his pockets, and he’s shivering in the freezing February night.

Isla-on-the-page runs outside. Josh embraces her.

“I’m in love with you,” he says. “I’ll do anything to be with you.”

“I’m in love with you,” Isla-on-the-page says. “I’ll wait for you.”

I tell him that I’ll wait for him to finish his book and earn his passage to college. I tell him that we’ll meet again this summer. And then, he tells me, we’ll never be apart again.

It’s after two in the morning when I set down the manuscript. My heart is drumming so loudly that I can’t hear myself think, and I can hardly see through my tears. I climb out of bed, pull aside the curtain, and peek out my window.

He’s there.

I drop the curtain, and it swings back into place. I pick it up and look outside again. He’s still there. He’s on the corner with his head ducked underneath his coat, shivering. The snow is falling like crazy. It covers him as if he were a mere postbox or bicycle or tree. He doesn’t see me. I yank on my boots, grab my key, and race down the hall. I throw open the door, and he must hear me running, because he turns the corner just as I reach it.

“You forgot to call,” he says.

I throw open my arms. He pulls me into him, and we kiss, and his lips are cold, and I think he’s crying, and I’m definitely crying, and I pull back to say, “I am so in love with you, Joshua Wasserstein. Of course I’ll wait for you.”