by Camille Soderstrom, Northwestern Student
“I love you, Mom.”
It’s a common phrase, one that Michael has said a million times and typed out a thousand. Today, as he stares at his phone, tears in his eyes, he makes that number a thousand and one.
Had he told her last night? What about this morning before leaving for school? He can’t remember, but if he could go back in time, he would make sure he said it so much that his mom would grow sick of it.
The rapid-fire BANG BANG BANG of gunshots rings through the hallway again interrupting the constant flow of the active shooter alarm. Michael flinches into himself at the noise and prays that his hiding spot in the supply closet remains undiscovered.
He is only eleven years old and still has a million more I love yous to give to his mom. He can’t die…. Not yet, and not here in his own school.
He hears footsteps approaching over the sound of the alarm, and he types out one last message on his phone.