"Where's MY EMILY?"
LISTEN TO ARTICLE
I didn’t expect anything good to come out of moving to Arizona in the summer of 2016. I didn’t want to leave Bloomington. I didn’t want to start over. But like most things back then, I just went along with it — half-asleep, half-resentful, drifting wherever life pushed me.
The truth is, moving didn’t change much. The same emotional baggage followed me across the desert: the loneliness, the false friendships, the endless cycle of trying to belong where I didn’t fit. A few of those people from Illinois pretended to stay in touch — the same ones who outcasted me, but still hovered around out of boredom or curiosity. Others, like the girl I had crushed on, didn’t bother at all. She ignored my messages — probably for my own good.
Arizona greeted me with heat and distance, and I found myself enrolled in another private Catholic high school. The same brand of toxic smiles, shallow people, and small talk followed me there too. But this time, I stayed detached. I didn’t see the point in being involved anymore.
Because something — or someone — was waiting for me outside of all that.
Every afternoon, after enduring another day of monotony, I’d walk to the Copper Ranch HOA pool. It was a quiet oasis in a noisy world. And that’s where I first saw her — Emily.
She has long black hair that shimmered under the Arizona sun, pale skin that caught the light just right, and green eyes that could calm a storm. She usually came with a friend, but my focus was always on her. Emily had this rare calmness about her, the kind that made time slow down. Yet even with her right there, I was still blinded by my old obsession — Sarah Stephens. The pale girl with blue eyes and bad teeth who haunted my teenage mind like a ghost I couldn’t stop chasing.
I was too ignorant, too blind to see the real blessing in front of me. Emily was gentle, kind, mysterious — everything my wounded heart needed, but I couldn’t see it then. My mind was trapped in the past, and my heart was still chained to people who treated me like I didn’t matter.
"WANT TO REACH OUT?"
YOU WANT TO REACH OUT? FEEL FREE TO CONTACT ME, VIA EMAIL OR TEXT MESSAGE. IF YOU DECIDE TO CONTACT ME USING MY PHONE NUMBER, I PREFER A TEXT MESSAGE. OTHERWISE I'LL JUST ASSUME YOU'RE ANOTHER SPAMMER. IN SIMPLE TERMS, BE AUTHENTIC. MY EMAIL: KINGWILLIAMSTUDIO@GMAIL.COM MY PHONE NUMBER: (602) - 643 - 6067
Things at home weren’t much better. My father — a narcissist through and through — ruled with emotional manipulation. He treated my mother and me like lesser beings. Our relationship deteriorated fast. One day, after an argument about religion and yet another school transfer, I lost control. I was angry at him, at the fake Christian system he praised, and maybe even at myself for not having the strength to walk away. I lashed out, and that moment marked a breaking point.
Therapy followed. Summer school followed. More fake smiles, more lies about how I was doing “just fine.” My math teacher failed me intentionally, and I swear she had strange motives of her own. So I took the class again at Gilbert High School in 2017, where — for a short while — I met genuine people. But I didn’t know how to keep them close. I was guarded, dishonest about my past, pretending to be homesick just to hide my scars.
That same year, I started art school near my old neighborhood. My life fell into a loop — school, lies, numbness, pretending, and the occasional glimpses of peace whenever I saw Emily. I took her for granted, too caught up in my inner chaos to truly connect.
Then came the biggest shock of all — my father decided to transition into a woman. It was November of 2017. My mother wanted a divorce, and for the first time in years, I saw a way out. A way back home to Illinois. My father didn’t take it well. Rage turned to threats, even waving a gun as he screamed, “Fuck you! You’re going home, you selfish bastard!”
And maybe, in a twisted way, he was right. I was selfish — for leaving Emily behind.
"GALLERY"
When we left Arizona, I didn’t say goodbye to Emily. No “I love you.” No contact info. No photos. Nothing. We never took pictures together because we were too busy living — not chasing Instagram likes, not posting filtered versions of ourselves.
Still, I regret it. I regret leaving her without closure. I regret being too lost in my own pain to recognize the one person who brought peace into my storm.
Back in Illinois, I fell into old habits. Another school. Another crush. Another hollow chase for validation. I started to forget Emily completely — maybe trauma, maybe denial. The only difference this time was that the violence wasn’t physical. It was verbal. And when people pushed, I fought back. They taught me to stand up for myself, to never be anyone’s doormat again.
Eventually, I realized Illinois had nothing left for me. My father, my enemies, my ghosts — all of it felt dead. So my mother and I returned to Arizona.
By 2020, I was in college when the world shut down. COVID hit, my uncle passed away, and politics consumed everything. My parents’ divorce finalized that same year, and my father faded from our lives. The chaos ended quietly — anticlimactic, but peaceful. Still, something inside me was missing.
Between 2021 and 2023, I was haunted by rage and emptiness. The void was unbearable, so I turned to spirituality — psychics, tarot, anything to find answers. One psychic told me I’d been chasing illusions, that “Satan is tricking you into loving the wrong women.” As strange as it sounded, she was right. Another told me, “You already knew your soulmate. A big change is coming.”
I thought that “change” meant meeting someone new. But life had other plans.
"WHERE WE MET"
In December 2021, I got into a car crash — a rollover accident caused by me trying to chase down a reckless driver. My car flipped, and somehow, I walked away with just a wound on my elbow. The deputy said I was going 80 miles per hour or more. That wreck changed me. It felt like a reset button for my soul.
Afterward, something awakened inside me. My dreams grew vivid. I started remembering Emily — her face, her voice, the warmth I once ignored. My mom and I began doing tarot readings, and every time, the cards revealed the same thing: a white woman with dark hair and green eyes.
It couldn’t be a coincidence.
I tried retracing my steps — sketching Emily’s face, putting up flyers, searching through yearbooks. No luck. But I didn’t give up. I painted her as an elf, beautiful and ethereal, a symbol of the woman I lost and the lesson I learned.
People might laugh or roll their eyes. But I don’t care. For me, it’s not just about finding Emily — it’s about redemption. About seeing the value of what I ignored. About waking up from a long, self-inflicted dream.
So if you’re out there, Emily — if somehow you stumble across my words or my art — I just want to say this:
I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t see you for who you were. I’m sorry for leaving without a word. You didn’t deserve my silence. You deserved love, truth, and appreciation.
And even if we never meet again, I want you to know…
I love you, Emily. Always.
"HERE'S A VIDEO"
