He’s dead. I couldn’t bring myself to say it to the rest of them, but he was.
“Is he… ok?” someone said behind me. He’s dead.
I’d never stand with him again leafing through library shelves, or highlighting passages silently in coffee shops. I’d never be able to call him at 3am with my latest idea and listen to him tear it to shreds because, “quite simply, you’re better than that.”
I kicked the empty whiskey bottle against the wall and it smashed. I thought I could smell the pills, although I probably couldn’t.
I turned around, leaving forever.