She was dead. Her pale, lifeless body looked nothing better than a mass of bones lathered in burnt cigarette ash. All except for her hazel eyes, that were glued on me, strangling on my dry throat. I wanted to save her, somehow grab her hand before it slipped into the clutches of the approaching grim reaper. But I couldn't do it, and I knew from that moment on– that this image will continue to haunt me in my sleep for years to come.

Mia's horrific recollection of what she witnessed in the college, has now made a space in my vacant head as I continue to grind my ass against the floor of the city hospital. The horde of dead bodies and weeping families aren't making it any better. I tried to divert my mind with some flavoured mineral water in my gym bag, but the humidity of this place managed to make me empty the bottle within minutes.

Now there are two sounds invading my senses while I try to focus on the surroundings, rather than my inner scared self– the first one is the obvious gurgling in my throat as I push the hefty amount of water down my system, and the second one is the wheezy sound of George's wheelchair creating friction with the cheap marble of the floor. I didn't know how to react when I first saw him wheeling it to the campus ground; just like I couldn't form any words when I tried dialling him the morning after the incident. He didn't pick up, and I was both— a little glad and a little broken.

So, in a gist, I am trying not to jump off the terrace of this building and get my hands off of consoling a never seen before personality of Mia. She has gotten rid of the Rolling Stones denim jacket to reveal the baby pink tank top she is wearing underneath. The top has these little ice cream cones printed on the fabric. Little ice cream cones. This is undoubtedly the lowest low I have seen her at.

"How did she even get in there?" Archie breaks out of his shock bubble once again to ask questions, the NYPD is probably making a list of, right now.

His hoarse voice only ends up making Mia shed some more tears, and hence forces me to pat her greasy hair while she does so. He isn't in a very great shape himself, but he is coping with the headset he has plugged on to. I, for one, know that his playlist is limited to the Beach boys' songs, and this crappy little piece of information is adding up to my anxieties with every button he presses on his phone.

It is a hell hole all in all. Not to leave out the burning gazes of Kylie's parents as they sit side by side like these wax statues– if only statues had an intent of grabbing a couple of teenagers' guts and shoving them back in their bodies repeatedly. They are a hundred percent convinced that one of us went MIA, and snuck inside the basement with a can full of gasoline and a good old lighter to burn all the useless wood lying around in there. And a passed out body stuffed beneath all that wood.

When I got a call from George, my first instincts told me that he wants to brag about one of his recent escapades. I had clearly forgotten about how he hasn't even left his house since three weeks, let alone go out to have a casual fling with some skinny drunkard, scarred with insecurities. I can sketch it out so precisely, because I was one of them, too.

Anyways, when he informed me about how the basement has caught fire and the rest of the extravaganza... I have to admit that my heart did a double take. It isn't everyday that you get a chance to be a part of such typical soap opera situations. In fact, if this hospital wasn't running on a meagre government fund, we could have created a perfect knock off of the 'Days of Our Lives' TV set. I mean, what can possibly make a better track than a case of mistaken identity of a dead person?

"We would like to talk to these children, if you don't mind?" One of the junior cops eyes us with an unreadable mixture of sympathy and suspicion.

"Are you warranted to do so?" George's father speaks up; playing the role of the sharp edged attorney, who has a comeback to everything these cops have to say. However, underneath this crisp tone, he is actually dead worried about his son trying his luck at some community college, instead of a reputed business school for post grad. Poor guy still doesn't know that George's actual dreams featured acceptance letters from Division I universities. And as someone who has witnessed him indulge in strategic team planning after sex... I am not kidding even one bit.

"Sir, we are just trying to follow the procedure over here," the cop tries to reason with Mr. Bailey. "We just need to ask some simple questions. We realise that hospital is not a place for interrogation:"

"Alright," Mr. Bailey sceptically nods at George, warning him of whatever tornado is about to fall upon the god's child.

We're behind the cop in a trail to the hospital cafeteria, sitting in a circle like a support group trying to get rid of some overrated addiction. George struggles to get round the table, so Archie escorts him over to my side– ironic yet enough to prove there's always been a semblance of a soft corner between the two hot heads. I guess whatever load of shit goes down, we'll always find some amount of comfort when together. Though, now that the cop is staring at each one of us like a bait, I can't help the lump forming in my throat Even after paying multiple visits to a precinct, I am hell scared of these uniformed officers; not to mention the burden of having to skew between my father and his beloved ex. Yes, that shit is over, and, yes, I knew it was coming.

"So, I can see that all of you are already aware of why I am questioning you." The cop legit tries to act like this is some Hollywood movie adapted from Spanish cinema. "I am sure that all of you guys agree to being close friends with Ms. Meyers. I am also sure that you know about the suicide note found in Ms. Meyers locker. And I can bet that one of you was there on the campus ground, when this unfortunate incident happened." He averts his gaze to Mia, who nervously holds on to her tear soaked denim jacket.

"The only question I have for each one of you, is that how were your relations with Ms. Meyers? Such a close knit group of friends is often known to have troubles and fights and what not... I guess you people had those, too?"

"No," all of us answer in chorus. The tight lipped smiles on our faces are enough to give away whatever lies we are clutching on to.

"Really? So, the bullying incidents were only reserved for the general crowd? None of you tried to embarrass each other in public by sharing private information or illicit pictures?" He keeps shooting daggers at Mia, but I don't understand why.

"We were friends, and friends don't do that to each other. As for the bullying and the fake suicide note, have you ever wondered that maybe there are other students who like to play such petty pranks, or don't mind going to such extent to seek revenge for whatever things we did to them," George bluntly answers him. I might be delusional, but his speech makes me wonder about whatever I told him... and if his theory is in fact true.

"I am just going by the facts and the evidence lying in front of me. And that suicide note has been matched with Ms. Meyers handwriting, before accusing the people who were mentioned in there." He raises his hands in defence. "Leaving aside the rogue note for a while, I want to know if you are aware of the missing case of a sixteen year old boy, studying in DixonValley?"

"What about that?" Archie immediately questions, his voice suddenly as clear as running water.

"Apparently, the boy's parents think that he got involved in a brawl with some kids from Arlington back in June, and has been suffering from PTSD since then."

"I think I have read this in the newspaper," Mia whispers loud enough for the cop to take note of it.

"So, you are accusing us of getting in a brawl with that boy?" I scoff at his baseless questions.

"Not at all, I am just stating what I have heard. Though, judging by your well to do backgrounds, I am sure that you often visit those expensive clubs in Manhattan to party with your friends," he blabs about our parents unreal wealth for the next few minutes. "Did I not mention that this kid also frequented one of those clubs?"

His emphasis on the expensive clubs raises my doubts further. We nabbed those kids from a club in Manhattan itself before taking them to the barn and... later left them by the highway all by themselves.

"Look, I don't want to put any unnecessary pressure on you kids, I am just doing my job. We can do this very easily if you speak what you know, and admit to anything that you might have hidden from your friends or your parents." He intently looks at us, hoping to break at least one ling while he is at it.

Fortunately, it doesn't work and he is soon let out by Mr. Bailey to calm our edgy nerves down. Once the cop's enormous shadow vanishes off the plastic table of the cafeteria, the tight air becomes a little breathable. Though, it might also have something to do with the cross ventilation taking place through the now open windows.

"What are we going to do about this?" Archie nervously rubs the back of his neck.

"This is planned. This whole thing is a perfectly executed plan," Mia says while looking nowhere.

"I think she might be right," George chips in.

"How can you be so sure?" I glance at Mia, attempting to study her shocked expressions.

As if on cue, she pulls out a crumpled newspaper cut out from her jacket and places it in the middle of the table. "16 year old boy goes missing."

"Isn't this the case the smart ass cop was blabbing about?" I ask her.

"I found this cut out in Kylie's locker. The last sentence is highlighted by a marker." She chokes out another sob. All of us go dumb at her words, unable to read the fine print any further.

"And look at this." She flips the cut out to make my biggest fears come alive.

"A.L," I read out and reflexively look at George, whose eyes are as wide open as mine.

"I think I have a clue about this," George murmurs, catching everyone's attention except mine. "We did engage in a brawl with some kids in a club back in June, and then took them to a barn in the outskirts to get even."

"You think that this missing kid is one of them?" Archie takes another look at the dreaded cut out.

"It's not about this missing kid. One of the others might not even be alive right now," I bite my tongue while uttering the damned words.

"And we have a slight hunch that this A.L is the one, all of us should be worrying about." George lets out a gasp to fill the eery silence following his confession. Holy crap.

***

By the time I reach home, the windshield of my car gets awfully close to resembling Mia's tear stained face. Luckily, I have wipers to get rid of this unwanted sight. It's getting windier, and a thunderstorm in the month of September feels like the nature's way of mocking my insensitivity towards everything that's happened today. But that's only because I know the truth, I know what these people are so oblivious to.

The moment my water filled Dolce & Gabbana's enter the hallway, my ever present dad comes walking in with a Bluetooth connected to his ear. He gives me a brief hug before going back to the conference call, and points towards the defrosted pizza sitting on the coffee table. Weirdly enough, there is a sticky note sitting along side the cotter plate– I cooked your favourite treat! I am really trying to remember the time I said I liked Brie on my pizza. I wish it ended there, but he topped the pale looking slices with pineapples.

"It's okay if you want to take it to your room." He comes back to sit on the couch. "I cannot even comprehend what must be feeling right now, but if you ever want to talk about it, I'll be right here."

"Yeah, I mean it's not like your schedule is blocked anymore, you know, to take strolls in the park with Mrs. Meyers." I pick the basil garnished atrocity and shove in in my mouth. "Oops, force of habit. I meant Ms. Williams."

"That's none of your business." He straightens his tie out to cover the embarrassment creeping up in his spectacled eyes. And here I was thinking I would never a chance to pick on daddy dearest about his affairs.

"I guess I am better off taking this to my room," I pick up the plate and walk over to my room, only to dump it down the overflowing laundry bag. Looks like someone will need to bleach out the cherry tomato stains from their dollars worth of tuxedos.

I slump down on the bean bag beside my desk and pick up the journal; one that I haven't looked at, since two months. A dust covered pen is already stuffed between two empty pages, as if waiting for me to write something equally appalling. Except that what I am about to pen down is something I cannot even get myself to think of. It's not true, though. It's just a white lie like the earlier one was. She did not die. How can she... I don't see it happening. I myself called 911 that day, I didn't run away, I didn't!

Okay?

"The phone slipped off my hands, falling on cue with the tears brimming in my half alive azure orbs. I choked on a sob, feeling like the pain would kill me if I let it out, and render me breathless if I don't. I lost her... I lost the only person who'd always been there.

It was me who slipped away.

I couldn't hold onto something that wasn't destroying me, that didn't take me a step closer to the horrible person I am today. I was too busy making hit lists, engaging in casual hook ups, taking chances at a broken relationship... so much that I lost sight of everything I had until the moment. Kylie Meyers made up that everything.

I didn't see her body, I couldn't dare to see it, after what Mia told me. Just the image was enough to make me want to puke all the citrus flavoured water I had washed down in a gulp. I didn't want to be the strong one, but I wasn't left with a choice. Mia was spiralling down, Archie was still comprehending the shock, and George has probably blanked out on life since the tragedy at the tracks. I didn't have anyone to lean onto, to share how it feels. And how does it feel? Like nothing in the world would ever be the same without her. Like she was the one keeping it together, and now that she is gone... the core five has erased itself from the map of Arlington."

My sweaty palm loses its grip on the pen as I stretch out my aching fingers, this silver band on my ring finger slipping out on the desk. It's Kylie's. The ink on the tattered pages looks nothing better than a big blotch of black, owing to the relentless stream of tears, and even if I can't read it, I will remember each and every syllable till the end of my life. It isn't by choice, but so aren't the circumstances at the moment. I can't let anyone know that Kylie didn't die... she can't, couldn't possibly be dead.

Right?

I almost feel another wave of nausea travel through my worn out body, when this hurricane like noise successfully diverts my attention. Not particularly the noise, but because it gives me a sense of déjà vu; one that is far apart from dark, lonely nights, and doesn't make me look twice at my arms, feeling as if the blood's somehow still on there.

I run over to push the curtains aside, and come across the same jet black Star Roadliner that used to halt at my house past midnights. In fact, if this was anything like those times, I would be strapping my heels right now and preparing to slide down the porch like Rapunzel, only to later come out looking like Maleficient after quadruple refills of beer at a party. One of the memories that wasn't all bad in our short term of slipping and dipping and hurting.

It's over now, though, so my hands are frozen on the window sill, unable to gauge a reaction. The tears are all cried out, the laughs long back a faint memory, and bitterness is all I've got lately. Or so I think until Archie waves at me before stepping over the pavement, and once he does, I can't help but chuckle and facepalm at the poor lad's sight. He's wearing a collared shirt on top of athletic track pants, his shock of red hair is a disheveled mess, his eyes are underlined with what seem like bruise coloured bags, and he is wearing two different converse on each one of his foot. Another lowest low I have witnessed tonight.

I immediately pull out the same cashmere stole I used to, when sliding down the porch, rushing to his rescue before his hammered self goes on to ring the doorbell or something. Once down, I cautiously trudge towards him, afraid that he might just lash out in his drunken state. That's been more me throughout the course of our thing, but from what I've heard lately, he's been letting it loose with house parties and beer pong gambles and what not. He's never had this careless side to him before, and now I'm left wondering what's real and what's a facade.

Although, tonight, I fail to grasp on any traces of alcohol on his stiff posterior, even when I'm dangerously close to pick out the scent of his signature musk. Nothing apart from his unrealistically sober breath hovering over the nape of my neck, where I'd got the tattoo done.

"How're you?" He tries to be chirpy while the puffiness of his nose gladly gives the ruse away.

"I... I don't even know what to say," I lean on the leather seat of the bike, revelling in the torturous silence around us. It's a zillion times better than all the yelling that went down in the course of our feeble relationship, and I'd trade this in a heartbeat for every accusation that was passed outside Daniel's that night.

Sleep around. Temper issues. Junkies belong together. To wrap it up and label it ugly would still be the understatement of the decade.

"You've never been great at expressing, so I'll give you the benefit of doubt," he comes to stand beside me, hopefully neglecting the embarrassing gasp I just let out.

"We drifted apart. It's what we do, we pick a bone, sulk for a few days, but at the end by some force find our way back to each other because we're in love. I've wanted to strangle you with bare hands, yes, but I never stopped loving you, Archie."

"Do you?" He counters, no speck of humour in his eyes, thundering with an emotion I can't dilute or haven't learned to. "Or do you love the clout that comes with being round the arms of the soccer team captain, and the possibility that Mia could replace you almost killed every cell in your body aspiring to be remembered as the unscathed diva of Arlington." He steps closer, while I stumble back, wallowing in the sounds of my blood curdling. "Tell me, Emma, isn't that all you've ever wanted? Why you went to the stretches of claiming your best friend's life for a few scandalous photos?"

"No!" I wish for the universe around to warp to nothing, my fears conceited under trembling fingers.

"Hey, Em. You're alright?" The flashing concern on his face and a retrospection tells I'd been weaving the dreary scenario, the first developing symptom of me slowly losing my mind apparently with every horrific incident checking itself off these days. "I'm fine," I mutter coldly before folding my arms to my torso and blocking the gusts of wind swivelling past the lone street of my apartment. I'd nearly picked up this leather jacket lying on my headboard, when I realised who it belonged to, and something didn't quite feel right. A certain boy with messy black curls and a crooked grin has become a regular aspect of my shaken up life, which is usually not the case for most. I think it's safe to say, Harry's the only one who stuck around long enough, apart from the gang.

"S0, how've things been between you and the guitar guy?" He isn't even looking at me, but at the chipped off paint of his bike, and I'm weak in the knees with how he can still just as easily read my mind and probably always will.

"He's just a friend, if that's what you mean," I say and observe one of his stray converse, the bright oranges one, nearly skid on the gravel of the road. It takes everything in me to push that widening smile back to the homely grimace, but a look at him and I'm a grinning mess, giving into the urge to fix his haywire hair, stuck to his forehead in clumps.

I barely run my fingers across the strands of his awry crimson hair, when he pulls me to himself, surprising us both. His arms painfully clutch on to the small of my back, fearing that I might disappear if they ever let go. My face inadvertently buries itself in his chest while I choke on the heat of our sudden closeness. Our bodies are crushing against each other, and the outsoles of his converse are quite literally pushing against my bare feet. To top it all, both of us are reeking of an awful combination of sweat and soap from our visit to the hospital earlier, and, yes, this isn't how reunions are supposed to be.

But somehow this is still perfect, and l don't think I would want it any other way.

We don't say much, just continue to hold on to each other until our fears and anxieties slip away from our scarred souls. And since that isn't going to happen any time soon, both of us silently agree to a lifetime of bearing the weight together. Always.