WRITING LETTERS TO Sebastian proved to be a pretty good way to get all of my thoughts in order. I spent the entire weekend filling up pages of my journal, writing and writing and writing until it felt like my hand might fall off.

It's what I was doing now as the midday sun swooped over my window. I was sitting on the ledge just beside it, finishing up telling journal Sebastian about the fight I'd had with my friends when I first hear it. A soft thud against my window.

I stop writing for a moment before deciding that the sound was nothing. Probably just a squirrel on the roof who'd dropped their acorn. Sucks for them.

But then I hear it again. And again, and again, until I finally turn my head to look out the window.

Roman's there dressed in a plain white t-shirt and beige cargo pants, staring up at me. He's standing up, straddling either side of his motorcycle. I scoff and push open the window. "The hell are you doing?" I call out, a laugh in my voice.

Roman grins. "It's Monday!"

"You could've called!" I yell back.

Roman grins even wider if that's possible. "This was more fun. Come down, already. Wanna show you something."

I glance from him to my journal. "What, right now?"

"No, next winter, Braylen," Roman retorts. "You coming or what?"

        I gnaw on my bottom lip before setting the notebook down and standing. I peer my head out of the window and smirk at Roman. "You're lucky I missed you, Roman De Carlo."

        He grins back and I shut the window behind me, quickly throwing on a pair of baggy jeans and a blue t-shirt. I wasn't too worried about impressing the guy and he did just show up randomly. Once I'm done getting dressed I slide into some tennis shoes and head out the door. No one was home—I swear, the twins were having a more eventful summer than me—but I still leave a note.

        I'm out into the hot California air in less than five minutes. Roman's looking away from my door when I come out but at the sound, he turns to me with a huge grin on his face. "Braylen Adams," he says, dimples poking out of his cheeks. "Good to see you."

        I glance down at his bike. "We're taking my car, aren't we?"

        "No can do, kid," he responds, handing me a helmet. "We'll get there faster on my bike. Hop on."

        I make a face but do as he says, straddling the back end of the motorcycle and sliding on my helmet. I latch onto Roman's waist and tighten my fingers around his stomach. "Don't call me kid!" I shout over the hum of the engine.

        Roman laughs loudly before taking off. The speed of the motorcycle wasn't foreign to me anymore, but that didn't mean that it was any less surprising. We speed through the streets easily and I listen to the sounds of my city with new ears. The voices of people having conversations, the laughter. The songs of birds tweeting and wind chimes twinkling. I'm tempted to ask Roman to drive around for a little longer.

        He pulls up to an apartment complex and parks his bike in a spot in the corner of the lot before shutting off the engine. He turns around and pulls the helmet off of my head slowly, something that shouldn't make my heart flutter the way it does. Roman's eyes stare back down at me with an expectant expression. He was waiting for me to say something, something that would illuminate how the rest of our time together would go. I knew what he wanted me to say. But I couldn't. So I plaster a smile on my face instead.

"You wanted to show me something?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.

Roman's face falls ever so slightly. Enough for me to notice, at least. His good nature isn't hard to call back up, though, and pretty soon he's grinning again. "Let's go."

We climb off the bike and make our way to an elevator. Roman punches on a number that I don't catch before leaning back and looking at me. We were on separate sides of the elevator and somehow even that didn't seem far enough. Something was different between us; I felt it in the air as the elevator flew up. He didn't comment on it and neither did I. We just kept looking at one another.

The ding of the elevator causes me to nearly jump out of my skin. Roman finally breaks eye contact with me as the doors open, ushering me to follow him out. We walk down a hallway up to a door in the middle of the hall. Roman unlocks it and pulls the door open, gesturing me in.

It was a small, but personable apartment. Way bigger than the one my mom and I lived in. The walls were covered in old Polaroid photos and underneath them were red felt couches and wooden tables. I couldn't seem to take in enough details in the place, the pictures of Roman from high school or the stacks of books tucked away in his corner. I'd read nearly all of them but there were some I didn't recognize. I turn to ask Roman what they were about to find his eyes already on me.

"What?" I ask.

Roman shakes his head before stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Nothing, I just...don't have many people over here, is all. This is kind of weird for me."

I raise my eyebrows. "Private?"

He shrugs. "Something like that."

"I like it," I mumble, meaning it. "It feels like you. And all these pictures." I gesture my hand to the walls filled with his photos. "Were they what you wanted to show me?"

Roman shakes his head. "Nah. I wanted to show you my bedroom."

My heart skips a beat. Warmth rises up to my cheeks and I open my mouth to say something when Roman laughs. "Relax, Braylen. You'll understand why when I show you."

"Okay," I murmur.

Roman smiles. Dimples. Again. "Okay."

He chuckles again before leading me through the living area and past the kitchen to a small hallway. There are two doors tucked in between the hall and he chooses the furthest one, clicking the door open.

My mouth falls. It was the only response that seemed appropriate. "Wow," I rasp, looking around at Roman's room.

Every single piece of the wall was filled with some sort of doodle or artwork. I guess a proper word for it would be graffiti, only this felt like more than that. There were portions that closely resembled "The Starry Night" by Van Gogh and other portions that I knew were 100% him. In the middle of it all, there was a bed with messy sheets and even more papers filled with artwork. I turn to Roman. "Oh my God, you're like...an artist."

Roman's blushing, a feat since the guy had to have the thickest skin ever. "I'm not," he responds, waving a hand in dismissal.

"You are," I argue, still craning my neck to take in as much of the four walls as possible. "And not in a 'good at coloring books in kindergarten' way. In a 'you could seriously make a living out of this' way. How did I not know this?"

Roman shrugs. "I don't tell a lot of people. It's something for me, you know?" he says. "I put a lining of construction paper along the walls, new ones every other week. The landlord would kill me if I painted on his precious walls. But I like it better that way. I get to start over whenever I want."

"This is...amazing," I laugh. "Really, Roman. I mean that."

He smiles sheepishly, plopping down on his bed. "I did most of my tattoos, too."

I turn back to look at him. "No way," I say, sitting on the bed beside him. "Which ones?"

Roman glances up at me before sticking out his arm towards me, pointing with his other hand. "The words, the clock, the glass of whiskey. I did the cross, too."

"The cross?" I repeat, tracing a finger over it. "You believe in God?"

Roman nods. "I grew up Catholic," he explains. "Not always the best way to grow up. I don't follow that religion anymore but it taught me a lot. And I know that...I know that I'm not exactly the person that you'd expect to be religious, but I am. Is that weird?"

"No, of course not," I respond. I bite on my bottom lip. "You can be whatever you want to be."

I look up to find Roman's eyes on me for what seemed like the fourteenth time in the past hour. I smile softly at him, clearing my throat. "Uh...could you...would you do a tattoo for me? Someday?"

"Really? You'd trust me with a needle and a gun against your skin?" Roman asks, laughing softly.

I laugh quietly. "I think I'd trust you with just about anything, yeah," I murmur.

Roman's smile softens just a moment before he throws his hands up. "Well, uh yeah. That's me. What about you?"

"What about me?" I ask, taking in the painting of a skull beside his bed frame.

Rome makes a face. "You know. What's your thing?"

"Oh," I mutter, picking at my fingernails. "I'm...I'm a writer, I guess."

"You guess?" Roman repeats.

I sigh softly. "I am. I am a writer."

Roman nods. "When are you gonna let me see some of your work?" he asks.

I hold my hands up. "Whoa! I never said anything about that. My words...I don't know, I guess I don't like sharing them with people that much, either."

"Why not?"

"Because," I start, running a hand through my hair. "Because I'm afraid. I'm never as honest as I am when I'm writing out how I'm feeling or what I think. And that's scary. To be naked like that."

Roman's brows etch close together before he speaks again. "I get that. Sometimes we put so much of ourselves into things that we don't recognize them becoming a reflection of who we are."

I stare at him. "Has anyone ever told you you remind them of Yoda?"

Roman laughs. "Afraid I've never seen that movie."

"Oh my god, you're kidding me. Finally, I've found a character flaw in you, Roman De Carlo,"

       We both laugh together, leaning forward before leaning back and simply looking at each other. "Seriously, though," Roman continues. "You shouldn't be afraid to show your work. It's part of who you are. People deserve to know the real you."

I let out a little snort. "Easy for you to say."

Roman's brows furrow. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing," I mumble, picking at a string of thread on my jeans. "But if I was half as perfect as you, I wouldn't be afraid to show people who I am, either."

Roman looks wounded. "I'm not sure where you got this narrative of me, Braylen, but I can assure you it's completely wrong."

"I mean, can you actually blame me? You're always so...sure of everything. Your feelings, your words, yourself. It's not a bad thing, Roman. I envy you it," I respond, my voice rising in defense.

Roman laughs humorlessly and when he speaks, there's an edge to his voice that wasn't there before. "Trust me, Braylen. You don't envy me. Or at least you shouldn't."

"Okay, what's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that maybe if you stepped out of your own head for a little bit you'd be able to notice that everybody else goes through bad things, too," Roman barks, standing up from the bed and running a hand over his head.

It takes me a moment to realize exactly what he's said. When I do, a pang hits me square in the chest. I bring my hand to my chest and rub circles to alleviate the pain but to no avail. "Are we actually arguing about this right now? What, you think I'm too selfish to think of someone other than myself?"

"I have never called you selfish," Roman says, pointing an accusatory finger at me.

I chuckle bitterly. "But you were thinking it, right?"

Roman sighs, turning his head away from me. His silence is answer enough. "Wow," I mumble. "You know, for all that talk, I actually thought you liked me. Good to know I was wrong."

"Oh, don't act like that," Roman hisses, turning back to me. "Don't act like I think you're a bad person."

"How do you expect me to act, Roman? Please, enlighten me. You get angry when I say you're a good person, you think that I'm selfish, and I wouldn't be surprised if you didn't only see me like some charity case!" I shout.

Roman pinches the bridge of his nose. "You're not some charity case to me, Braylen!"

"Then what the hell am I?" I fire back, staring him down. The ache in my chest hadn't left and I could feel my body warming up. "What am I, Roman?"

He crosses his arms, running a hand along his chin. "You're being ridiculous."

"Am I?" I retort. I clench my fists and stare up at him, the angry look on his face. All fight leaves my body completely and in its place is a hollowness. Roman and I weren't friends. Perhaps we never had been. Perhaps all he saw was a grieving boy that he met once or twice. I wasn't just that. I knew I was more. "I should go."

"Braylen," Roman starts. I wait for him to finish his sentence, wait for him to say something that will make all of this make sense. But he doesn't. He cleans his face of emotion and nods towards me. "I'll drive you back."

I shake my head, standing. "No worries. I can get home myself."

I head to the door, brushing past him. "B," Roman says. I ignore him and push the door out of his bedroom and out of the apartment.

It's not until I'm in the lobby calling an Uber that hot tears begin streaming down my face. I was pretty sure I just lost the best friend that I had at the moment. And I was pretty sure that it was all my fault.