"i sat on a rock in the middle of nowhere, trying to make sense of it all."

***

West's room is neat. That's the best way to describe it. That's the only way to describe it. White walls and light brown wooden floor that creaks right on the doorway when someone enters. West said it came with the house. On days where we'd run around to play tag or whatever game we had in mind, my biggest fear was the floor giving up and us crashing down to the coffee table downstairs. Imagine the mess.

     There's a white tool that sits on one of the corners, a record player on top and stacks of vinyl at the bottom of its feet. West was a collector—obsessed with getting his hands on every record there are out there, no matter the genre. He said music is music. Simple as that. He admired everything and he admired the hell out of them. He was rare.

     I go to his little closet next to the stool. It was his favourite part of his room. A great place to hide, or share secrets, or simply sit down and catch a breath. His words, not mine. I never really liked it. I still don't. It's tight and dark, and for all I can remember, the light never turned on properly. And as I'm standing here pulling the door open to get in, goose bumps rise on my skin. The light is in the centre of the room, up above on the ceiling. I fiddle with the switch for a while. It's one that you pull down to turn on. Still not working well, I see. It flickers and flickers, before finally staying on—dim, but manageable.

     It's a simple closet. Nothing fancy, nothing crazy. It barely fits 2 people; 3 with maximum effort. His clothes are hanging on one side, a drawer underneath for more, and on the other side are his shoes, mostly sneakers. There's a pile of old textbooks lying on one corner and I can't help but kneel down to organise them. I grin when I see our old yearbooks.

     "Lots of embarrassing memories there," I say to myself while stacking the books. "Let's not open it."

     The lights above me start to flicker again. I stand up so fast that I almost trip over my own legs. It's settled, then. I'm still not a fan of his closet. I don't think I'll ever be.

     The flicker stops on its own and I switch it off anyway, just to make sure. Slowly, I walk out. All I can think about when closing the door behind me is West and when the last time he stepped into that closet was, not knowing it would be his last.

     I feel a punch in my stomach and try to hold myself from crying.

***

I'm sitting on the floor by the side of West's bed by the time Dylan comes in, accompanied by the familiar creak by the door. It's funny how one little sound can bring back so many feelings and make a place feel like home again.

     "Hey," he says. I motion for him to come sit next to me. He does so. "How you going?"

     "Not sure, really. Our old yearbooks are in there, if you're interested," I say, pointing at the closet.

     "Sadly, I'll have to pass," he chuckles. The photos of Dylan in them aren't the best. He's never been fond of yearbooks since the one in grade 8, where he face planted in the middle of the football field and the photo made it to the 'Best Moments' page.

     "What's everyone else doing?"

     "Well, the lovebirds are making pasta downstairs."

     I roll my eyes.

     "Come on!" he argues. "They like each other, it's pretty damn obvious!"

     "But you know they hate it when we tease them!"

     He thinks for a moment. "Well, that's true, but not a strong enough reason for us to stop."

     "Dylan."

     "They're not even here! Technically, they only hate it when we tease them, and they hear it."

     I give him a look. He shrugs. Unbelievable, but he's not wrong. I'd never admit that, though. His ego is already big enough as it is.

     "Leave them alone. Now, let's sort out the drawers," I say in attempt to change the subject. He's now walking over by the window to open it, letting cold wind blow into the room. He picks up a guitar from the side of the bed and starts playing it. I want to punch this boy. Truth is, we've all reached the point of wanting to do that. Dylan is Dylan. He's all over the place and funny and petty and child-like. I say that with the best intentions. I love that about him, anyway. He reminds us to stop growing up so fast. Like a magnet that pulls us together when we start to stray from each other.

     "Wait, check it out," Dylan says, snapping me out of my thoughts. "I thought West got rid of that."

     My gaze follows what he's pointing at—an amplifier right behind the door. That's odd, I thought. I remember West complaining about how it doesn't work anymore and wanting to throw it out.

     "Maybe he changed his mind or something," I say.

     Dylan walks toward it. He carries it to the middle of the room where there's more light and set it down. It isn't too big and heavy for him to easily lift it, but it isn't too light, either. There are some wires tucked at the back of it, so he grabs them in attempt to see if it's still working.

     "Hold on," he says, brows furrowing. I watch as his hands dug back into the amp and to both of our surprises, he pulls out a piece of cloth. It looks like a worn out t-shirt.

     I'm just as curious now, so I squat down next to him to see if there's anything else in the amp. There isn't. The cloth is twirled around something, so Dylan carefully opens it as if unwrapping a present and not wanting to ruin the wrapping paper.

     "What is it?" I ask.

     "I don't know. Could just be a capo or extra guitar strings or something."

     Funny. He's saying all these things but he doesn't believe it. I can tell from the shakiness in his voice. I don't believe it, either. And maybe we're both wrong! Maybe it is just some backup strings or an old capo. Maybe his favourite picks, one he keeps safe and never want to use. Maybe it's nothing in the first place. Just a cloth.

     Dylan is taking forever. Or maybe the cloth is just super thick and wrapped around countless times until un-twirling it seems like an endless cycle. I'm probably over-exaggerating it, but, they say time becomes your worst enemy when you're expecting something. I suppose that's the case with us now. I feel the ticking of the clock on the wall with every beat of my heart. Something's off. I can't tell you why, or how I know. I just do. Sometimes, that's enough.

     Tiny squares of paper starts falling out midway unfolding. Like confetti on a New Year's Eve party falling onto the wooden floor, just less colourful. There's a lot of it. I'm thinking, what in the world? and pick as much of them as I can, before realising there's nothing on them.

     Silence. Dylan's reached the center. More papers fall on to the floor. Postcard sized, so in my head I automatically assumed that's exactly what they are—postcards that West collects from trips. Except, they're not. These are envelopes, all sealed, plain white. And there's four of them. I don't move. The clock on the wall is all I hear now. Dylan lowers his body to pick the envelopes up and I'm terrified because I've never seen him so quiet and tense. They're in his hands now.

     "The corners," I tell him when I notice something. My breathing quickens as I reach out for one to show him. "Look!"

     Dylan flips an envelope from side to side for a few times. It's easy to miss the writing because of how small it is. You'd think it's simply a dot. But it's not.

     "I see it," he says. "What the hell?"

     We look at each other. I can feel my heart beating quicker by every second passing. I take the other envelopes and look at them before laying them on the floor.

14, 18, 22, 26.

     Our birthdays.

     These are for us.