"when the lights go out, will you take me with you? through six years down in a crowded room, and highways I call home."

***

Cold wind blows through my hair as I step outside, making me wrap my jacket tighter around me. It touches my skin, too, and when it does—it stings like tiny little needles poking on the surface. On the sidewalk, I wait for Dylan.

     Still. I am still.

     The sound of my phone snaps me out of my thoughts. I unlock it to see a text from the boy himself.

DYLAN: I'm a little late, sorry!!!

DYLAN: Be there in a few mins!

ANN: It's freaking cold!! I could've waited inside!!!

He takes a few seconds to reply. 

DYLAN: I have a good reason, I swear!!!

     I hear the sound of a skateboard wheel rolling from afar. Then, just as suspected, from around the corner, a very wide-eyed Dylan appears. He smiles when he sees me, and drops one foot to the ground to stop. In his hands are two coffee cups, and he holds them up in the air before handing one over to me.

     "Hot chocolate," he grins before taking a sip. "But I prefer to call it heaven."

     "Of course," I say, not being able to smile at his excitement. "Thanks, Dyl."

     "Counts as a good reason, right?"

     "You're lucky it does."

     We start walking. His skateboard's lifted up from the ground now and tucked in his arms. For a while, we just drink in silence, trying to enjoy the chocolate goodness as it melts inside our mouths and warms our bodies. The cars passing by becomes the only noise that we hear.

     I wait for a voice—his voice.

     I wait for him to tell us about a new band he heard on the radio, or about some weird dream he had the night before, or simply to crack a joke that both Dylan and I would consider lame, but we'd all laugh anyway. He used to randomly blurt out lyrics and argue with us about its meaning. We never won, though. He always got the last word. I wonder if he's somewhere around, maybe behind us—just waiting to jump out and surprise us, then laugh reckless like a little kid when he sees the expressions on our faces. I miss his laugh.

     I wait.

     Nothing.

     "I know," Dylan says. He turns to look at me for a brief second before focusing back on the sidewalk we're on. "It feels strange, doesn't it?"

     "Yeah," I trail off. I'm desperate to get my mind off this, so I start to count the number of houses that we're passing by.

     We stop at a crossing, waiting for the light to turn green. The air is still damp and when we breathe, faint smoke comes out of our mouths. Usually, we'd pretend to be a dragon and blow to the air. Then, we'd race one another until we run out of breath. It's funny how the memories you remember the most is the simplest ones.

     Dylan sips on his beverage. "I tried talking to Xander."

     The light turns green. We cross.

     "I really messed up, huh?"

     It's been a little more than a week since the fight. A little more than a week since Xander walked out on us. A little more than a week since he had spoken to any of us. And this scares me, because sure, Dylan and Xander fight all the time, but never this way. What happened that morning—it felt different.

     "I don't know why I said it, Ann," he sighs. "And now he won't even talk to any of you. I'm sorry."

     "Stop it, Dyl," I turn to look at him, waving my hand in front of his face. "You made a mistake. We all do. We say shit we don't mean, and we mess up. It's no one's fault."

     "It's mine."

     "Not entirely."

     "But—"

     Shush! I cut him off, a finger over his lips to keep him from saying anything else. I'm nervous, sure. About Dylan, about Xander, about our friendship in general. I can't lose anymore people. The thought of us not being friends scare the hell out of me, so I attempt to send my thought somewhere else.

     It's not Dylan's fault; it's not Xander's, either. Sometimes, it's no one's fault and that's perfectly fine. They both play a role. But they're not to blame. And besides, mistakes are meant to be made. I keep saying that, but truth be told, believing it is another story. It's hurts knowing that you could've prevented it from happening, but did nothing. It hurts knowing that you can't really fix it, either. You feel helpless. In that case, I suppose it's my fault, too, then.

     "Listen," I say. "I'll talk to him, okay?"

     "And how do you plan on doing that?" he asks, never missing a beat. "He won't even talk to Ocean, Ann. We're talking about Ocean here!"

     "I know, I know! What I meant to say was—I'll try to talk to him."

     He gives me a grin.

     "And besides," I take a sip of the sweet drink before the flavour melts into my mouth. "I've got Physics with him today. He'll find a reason to talk to me."

     I smile at the last part, knowing it's true. Xander sits next to me, and at the start of each week, our teacher would always give us these multiple choice questions to work on together as partners for the remainder of the class. And the thing is, both Xander and I aren't very good at Physics. Scratch that, we're not very good at anything that requires logic. We'll definitely talk at one point. And if he won't be the one starting the conversation, I will.

     "Ah, here we are," Dylan announces as we go through the school gate. The chattering sound of students become the only thing we hear, talking about everything and anything they can think of. On my right, a bunch of girls are sharing a heartfelt, emotional story of how one of them broke a nail while attempting to crack an egg this morning to make breakfast.

     How even?

     Dylan hears it, too, and gives me a look of well-today-should-be-interesting. He chuckles, lifting his cup to his lips.

     "How ironic is it that I'm drinking a cup of heaven while being in hell?" he jokes, satisfied with himself from the smile on his face. "Ready?"

     "Do I really have a choice?"

     "Good point. There's always the option of ditching, though!"

     "Oh, you know what? Pizza in this weather sounds amazing! We can also leave poor Ocean alone with an angry Xander?"

     He pauses, then shrugs, "I think she'll manage."

     We laugh. He opens the door for me, and I walk in to meet the gaze of people I don't even know; people I've never spoken to my whole life. It's so strange how it'/s the ones that know you the least that judges you the most. West would've said something like, "So, what?" but I'm not like him. Actually, he probably wouldn't even need to say anything. He'd smile and that was it. Everyone became his friend. That damn smile.

     "They'll move on, soon enough," Dylan walks over to my side and puts an arm over my shoulder. "It's funny how these people didn't even know our names before the whole thing."

     "Well, they know you. I mean, who doesn't remember the boy who brought his hamster to school and asked the nurse to check on him?"

     "Melon wasn't feeling well, okay?" he argues, arms up in defence with his cheeks turning red. "And I was worried!"

     "Hmm."

     "Also, you're wrong. People know me simply because, let's see, what was it? Oh yes, I'm hot."

     "Right! How did I forget that?" I joke, a smile forming on my lips.

     He rolls his eyes, puts his hand back around my shoulder. "Shut up."

     I'm about to make another comment when Xander comes into our view. He stands by his locker, pulling out a few books and stuffing them in his bag. My smile fades almost instantly, and I feel Dylan's arm tense up. We stop to look at him, hoping, wishing even, for some kind of acknowledgement—a look, a wave, maybe for him to start walking toward us? I know it's a lot, but I guess it's nice to be optimistic.

     And he does.

     The locker door is shut. He turns his head slightly and notices us there, and he stops. He didn't mean to do that. It just happened. So now here we are, looking at one another. No words, no movement. The crowd continues to move all around, a mix of voices all around.

     Yet, I'm only looking at him. Sorrow, pain, regret—all visible.

     Guilt.

     The bells rings. He marches down the hallway, opposite direction to us. Dylan and I are still standing there. It's hard to move. Maybe we just don't want to.

     That look in Xander's eyes, though. It lingers.

     He knows something.