As time went on, Icarus spent more time with Elion than with me. So much that I longed to see the tattered towel on the roof, which we had called ours in our youth.

Now, not even the light in his bedroom was on. After a few days of staying up till one in the morning with hardly a glance spared into my window, I went back to sleeping early or trying to. Curled in a ball on my bed, I'd stay up, contemplating whether I should even bother to text or call him. If he couldn't spare the time to look in my direction, why would he spare the time to respond to my messages?

Leaving it in the folds of my duvet, I pretended our string of past messages was nonexistent, fearing that I'd type something I'd late regret.

I hated the festering hatred within me, wishing that Icarus wouldn't be as happy as he is now, that he'd ache to come back to me and our nights on that roof, spilling secrets of the stars and their namesakes. This nagging feeling of betrayal and abandonment grew in me like wildfire, destroying every memory I thought we cherished. Was our friendship always this fickle, or was this the power of love, enrapturing a person enough to blind them from everyone else they once cared about?

I wanted to squash the ache, to upend it all, in a feeble attempt of reassuring that Icarus still cared for me, that at the least still saw me as a close friend. Our childhood could not have compared to the likes of the few weeks Icarus and Elion had grown to know each other. It couldn't have been that easy.

It became clear that the nights I hadn't seen Icarus' lights were because he was at Elion's place or hanging out with Elion and his friends at a party. Icarus never liked the parties his other friends planned in high school; he hated alcohol and loud crowds, and despite being a complete extrovert, Icarus disliked socializing in those kinds of settings. 

I hated those settings more than he did, and we never planned on attending any of those silly parties when we'd attend college together. Rooftop star-gazing was a million times better than intoxicated young adults.

Or so I thought. 

It shouldn't have been a surprise that Elion and Icarus would attend these social gatherings, and yet I wondered why Icarus would agree to go to one now. Had he simply refused to go because I didn't want to go; was he interested in attending these events and only feigned disinterest because of me? 

Was I truly holding him back from perusing boisterous crowds and socializing with peers? To think I was holding him back in anything was an awful feeling. 

We were both adults now, both with separate lives, and I knew that at some point, we'd possibly drift apart, spread our wings and fly to our destinations in life. It never occurred to me that he'd fly in a completely different direction, forget his roots and nest and fly without me at his side. It hurt more than it should've, but this stifling dependency on our friendship was more like an unhealthy obsession that I had let go of longer than I should've. 

But had Icarus ever looked to our friendship with the same care and obsession I had, or had it all been made to burn to ashes? Crash into a sea of emotions I could not navigate on my own?

But in the midst of it all, I could not hate either of them, for how could a measly moon compare to a sun? In this case, a flight to the sun seemed more promising than spreading his wings to a moon.

☀☾

One late morning, I stayed up till three in the morning, desperate to get a glimpse of him through my bedroom window. It had been over a week since I had seen him in his room, and seeing him was unlikely. But by some impossible chance, his light turned on, and like a moth to a flame, I peered through the sliver between his curtains. His hair was askew, completely unlike his usually pristinely combed hair. But that wasn't the only thing different. 

Two shadows were dancing on the wall behind him. 

Icarus had invited someone over. Icarus had never invited me into his room before, never invited anyone over.

I should've moved from my spot and lifted my chin from the edge of the window sill in case he or his guest would see me, but I couldn't move. Despite the ache in my back, watching the shadows dance in the room felt like a terrible nightmare. The owner of the other shadow hadn't shown themselves, but it was clear that whoever it was made Icarus laugh and smile as I had before on the roof. I could hear his distinct laugh from the slightly ajar window, and each sound pierced my chest at the thought of Icarus drifting further apart.

One turn of his head and Icarus would've been able to spot me transfixed on him and his guest, but a part of my petty being wanted him to turn to look me in the eyes and confirm that whatever frayed friendship we had was really slipping between us. 

That he really was flying further and further away from me.

The empty spot on the roof between us felt like a mile away now, a chasm between our roofs that once had been a simple step away. What felt like just a tiny hop now felt like a mile of jagged terrain I had to cross if I ever stepped near Icarus' presence again.

The shadows continued to dance on his back wall, appearing to press together before separating and going from one end to the other. And then, one of them walked into view.

It hadn't been Icarus standing in the sliver of the window then. I recognized that golden hair from anywhere. I blinked a few times, but that same golden hair remained, burning a hole in my already fragile heart. 

Icarus had brought Elion Montague up to his room, a place I had never had the privilege of seeing. He was laughing and smiling like they had been the best of friends. 

I told myself it shouldn't have hurt; it shouldn't have been an issue that Icarus had other friends and was willing to invite them over. And yet it burned, tore at my stomach like a vicious beast. 

If I had wings, the sight of them in his bedroom in the wee hours of the morning was the blade that would surely cut mine down, plummeting me in the sea of agony.