It feels like forever until I stop crying and he releases his hold on me.

“I’m sorry,” I finally manage to croak out as I wipe away my tears.

“Thanks,” he replies. “But you don’t have anything to be sorry for.”

If he could read my mind, he’d know that’s not true. But I don’t say anything.

“I get it. You knew him too. It’s okay to feel this way.”

What the fuck? How is he so calm right now? I feel like if I try to talk, I’ll just start crying again.

“We can get through this. It’ll be hard, but we can do it. And maybe we can support each other, like we used to.”

I look at him. Is he asking to be friends again? No matter what happened, I don’t think any part of me wants that. But maybe he’s just asking for support. And, I mean, I’d have to be kind of a dick to refuse him that now, so I just nod. That seems to make him feel a little better.

I look around, noticing the pages again.

“What… happened?” I ask, my voice strangled and thin. He looks at the pages, too.

“Oh. That. I don’t… I don’t really remember. When I heard the news, it was like I blacked out, and next thing I knew, I was writing a letter.”

“To who?” I ask, confused. I’ve heard of a lot of different responses to grief, but letter-writing was not one of them.

“Oh. Uh… just William.” He looks away, and I catch what I think is a nervous glint in his eye.

Who’s William?

But I know it would be insensitive to ask, so I drop the subject.

“Are you… really okay?” The question comes out kind of tentative, like I’m not sure he’s been truthful so far.

“…I will be. But thanks for asking.”

He checks his watch and frowns.

“It’s… late. We both have class tomorrow, so maybe we should…”

Again, what? He’s worrying about class at a time like this?

But I get up anyway. Even as I look around uncertainly— the state of the room 

still makes me feel uneasy— John takes my shoulder and looks straight at me, that deep melancholy still in his eyes— but, is there something beneath?

There’s no time to look closer, though, because before I know it he’s 

accompanying me to the door. I step outside, turn to say goodbye, but find only a closed door in front of me.

Something’s wrong.

****

I continued school and the days went by almost as if nothing had happened. 

Of course, it didn’t feel the same— a light had been dimmed somewhere, and I had a feeling it was going to stay that way. Trying hard to shove down all my resentment for him, I worried about John; he seemed normal, going to classes regularly and turning things in on time, but that was just the problem. He was too normal.

After Sam, I expected him to have a hard time, but when life just went on, it didn’t feel all right. Death isn’t something you can just ignore— it leaves a gaping hole where there once was a person, leaving their severed ties to others to bleed out. So, no. He couldn’t be feeling nothing. He can’t be. There’s something going on, is the thought that continued to nag at me from the back of my mind, but I didn’t want to listen, because listening would mean I would have to confront him. If I did that, who knows how he might react, what emotions might pour out on either side…

So, I elected to do nothing, just watch from afar.

And then, something changed.

“Quell? No, I haven’t seen him in my class. Is he all right?”

Professor Stephens peers out at me from behind his round glasses: his gaze is one of tentative concern. I shake my head.

“I wouldn’t worry,” I say. “He’s probably fine.”

The look of concern fades from his face. He nods in acknowledgement and returns, unburdened, to his classroom.

If only I could be persuaded that easily.

Finally, I decide to bite the bullet and just go back to his place. I’ve been avoiding it, along with any direct contact with him, but at this point it seems unavoidable.

But even as I arrive at his door, I’m saved the trouble of searching the dorm: there’s a note on the door.

I take it. Written on it is simply:

HELLO OLD FRIEND

What?

This isn’t even his handwriting, unless it’s changed drastically over the years. He’s always written sloppily, preferring to use a computer whenever possible, but this is… meticulous. Crafted.

I put the note in my pocket. I have a feeling it’s important.

****

Days pass. Every day, I look for him, and he’s not there. I go to his apartment, looking for any sign that he’s come back.

What I don’t do is tell anyone that he hasn’t been sighted in over 56 hours.

I don’t know why. I probably should. But something tells me that whatever’s going on… it isn’t anyone else’s business.

It’s our story, no matter how little I desire that.

So I wait.

One day soon after, I stay behind in class after everyone has gone. I need time to think. The rain falls evenly outside, humming a distinct rhythm that slowly lulls me, unwillingly, to an uneasy sleep.

In my dreams, I see strange things. I see two men: one black-haired, the other blond. They’re working on something, though it’s not clear what— some kind of lifeless mass? Only then, it’s not lifeless; its chest begins to heave up and down. 

Its mouth moves.

The first thing that leaves it is a scream.

Suddenly, my skull splits— my ears are ringing, my blood, frozen— and I open my eyes.

I’m back in the classroom.

Sighing with relief, I turn to the window to check how much time has passed.

I can’t tell, because there is no window.

I look to the left.

There is no door.

Just walls.

A hand counts down.

Five

Four

Three

Two

One

Zero!

I look to the seat next to me and find the person I’ve been looking for. Only, it’s not really him, but someone eerily like him. He’s wearing dark, old clothes: a worn suit, a yellowed shirt, torn pants… and his shoes are crusted with dried blood.

I know, because I can smell it.

I look at his face again, but it’s changed: his eyes are white now, his lips blue and everything about it is wrong. It looks… what’s the right word.

Oh, right.

It looks dead.

He smiles at me.

“Hello, old friend.”

HELLO OLD FRIEND

Fuck.

What’s going on?

He takes my hand. I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything so cold.

“I’m looking forward… to working together…”

He throws his head back, and opens his mouth full of rotting teeth. The sound he should be making is laughter, but it doesn’t sound like that. It sounds like…

Screaming.

I open my eyes.

I’m still screaming.