But that's all in the past. Fast forward to September 2019. Fall of my Sophomore year. Mother Earth was tired from the heat and humidity of summer and flung her leaves from each branch of every tree, inflamed with red and gold. It was a golden day, the kind of day you just feel great on for no reason. I had my Airpod in my right ear and Lance in my left.

"Oh my god, no, then he was all like "bitch I didn't mean to cum in your mouth" and then I was like, "well you to shave your Bigfoot looking ass!"" I was looking up at the sky, listening to Fifteen Minutes by Mike Krol and drowning out the high pitched sound of his voice.

"Wow," I drawl to make him think I'm paying attention. I'm wearing my rust-colored suede jacket over a red and white striped t-shirt with navy chinos and my white Vans. Lance wears a light pink t-shirt under an acid-washed jean jacket, black joggers, and white Converse.

"I swear, Gabe is so rude to me, and I do not appreciate it!" Gabe was Lance's boyfriend; a junior, the year above us. He was tall and hot, yes, and Lance loved to relay their sexual encounters - which were often - to me, but I could tell that he didn't even like him. Lance rolled his eyes and pulled out his Carmex. He squeezed the tapered end of the yellow tube, his eyebrows arched, his lips hanging open, his cheeks blooming and his lips glossy. This was how I wanted to remember him; dark eyes trained in the distance, his face glowing with his fertility, the wind blowing through his curly dark brown hair.

"That's so sad," I mutter, turning away from him. We were walking down to 7-11 for Slurpees, which we did often. After we got our Slurpees, we'd often walk around town, or find a nice spot and just talk. We got out of school around 3, and we'd usually stay out until 6, when my mom made me come home for dinner and homework. The afternoon sun was high and proud in the sky. Lance pulled his vape and deposited it in between his soft lips. He knew it annoyed me, and blew the strawberry scented smoke in my face.

"Lance, come on, that's gonna kill you one day," I shake my head, pulling the vape from in between his fingers and putting it in my pocket. It was still wet with his saliva.

"Oh my god, I'm sorry. Thank you for looking out for me, you're just like my daddy!" Lance batted his eyelashes and pretended to be meek. You had to laugh. When Lance entered a room, you were forced to look by some mode of divine intervention, or maybe it was Lance's great legs.

"Come on, I'm just saving you from being another bad statistic on those weird anti-vaping ads," I laugh, because Spotify just started playing one. Lance giggles and shoves me, nearly throwing me onto the street.

"Too bad I can't save you from becoming another dead pedestrian statistic," Lance giggles, his distinctive laugh echoing down the empty suburban sidewalk we were going down.

"But, like, no cap, Gabe told me I should stop wearing crop tops because they make me look like a whore. Someone is getting their ass beat, no cap," He tapped his long fingernails on a tree we passed by.

"And is that on not even liking your boyfriend?" Lance turned to me, his eyes wide, his lips open just a little bit.

"Well, no," Lance kicked a rock on the sidewalk and slumped down on a doorstep to some sort of law office.

"I just..." He sighed, his legs spread, his feet under his knees, his hangs limply in between his legs.

"I never thought my life would be like this. Gabe only wants me to bottom for him. He doesn't even know my middle name, or my favorite, or that I love the stars," He looks up at the stars, unseen but passing judgment at every moment.

"What did you think your life would be like?" I humor him, sitting down on the doorstep next to him. His eyes became dreamy and he was about to tell me when a loud clattering noise startled me. I looked across the street, and the loveliest girl I ever saw was on top of an orange VW bug. She wore a white crop top with a butterfly on the chest and an orange plaid skirt with white Vans. Her topknot was held up with an orange velvet scrunchie while the rest fell clear down to her waist, and she was about to take a picture with her orange Polaroid camera when she dropped it.

"I got it!" I yell, checking to make sure no cars were coming before I dive down and retrieve her phone.

"Thanks," Her voice was pleasant; like the chiming of small, pleasant bells. It was the voice that would sound good coated with any sort of accent. It conjured up visions of young ladies lacing each other's corsets and swooning over marriage proposals in rooms with flowered carpets and marble cherub statues. It was a voice from a generation not from our own; a voice that you'd hear, and hoopskirts and bonnets with ringlets peeking out would come to mind.

"You want me to take the picture?" I offer, holding out my hand. She considers for a moment. Without warning, she quickly snaps a picture of me. I blink. The camera slowly relinquishes the little photograph. She pulls out an orange gel pen from her orange Kanken.

"What's your name?" Her light hand was poised over the little white rectangle at the bottom, almost like a butterfly about to take flight from a flower.

"Alex. Alexander. Murphy," I mutter. She scrawls a date in delicate, loopy handwriting and hands the photo to me, which, by now, has developed. My hand is outstretched politely, and my eyebrows are raised slightly. My lips are parted with speech and my eyes are looking at the lovely photographer rather than the camera.

"Alexander Murphy 9/9/19," The caption on the picture reads.

"Okay, take the camera and squat over there," She points a tiny finger to the front of the car. She hoists herself up onto the hood of the car and crosses her legs. I kneel and take the picture. The camera spits it out and it takes a minute to develop. She takes it from me and blows on it. Slowly, the image was appearing. She looked off into the distance, smiling sweetly, as the afternoon sun loomed behind her.

"You've really got an eye for this kind of thing," I say, looking at her what I hope is softly.

"Thanks," She tucked her hair behind her ear, "oh, I'm Violette, by the way."

"That's a beautiful name," I smile. She giggles, her silver butterfly-shaped earrings glinting in the sun. I can hear tapping on the pavement behind me, and I know that Lance has crossed the street.

"Hey, Alex, my dad just called. I have to go home, he needs me to watch his friend's kid," Lance was one of the worst influences a kid could have; he smoked, drank, vaped, slept around, and was in general, a skinny mean bitch. But he got nice grades and was polite to select adults, so the soccer moms elected him their go-to babysitter. I didn't hear Lance's phone ring, though.  

"I'll walk you home," I offer, and he shakes his head, flashing a tight-lipped smile. His eyes are crinkled at the ends from his smile, but I can see the hurt in them. He turns quickly and walks off. Whether he was hugging his shoulders because he was sad or because he was cold, I don't know. But I think I saw his shoulders shaking as he walked.