In the midst of winter, I had a friend named Toru, who had a peculiar obsession with vintage cameras, as if they were extensions of his own soul. We often visited a mountain plain near our town, where he would spend hours trying to capture the perfect photograph. For him, this was the only way to silence his perplexed mind—a refuge from his own special hell. Toru was an extroverted spirit, always shining brightest among us awkward teenagers. During our third year of high school, he decided to leave us behind for a different school in the city. Before he left, he gave me a Polaroid of our group; the same mountain we loved lingered in the background.
He returned to us during the festive season. He came back to meet us, and we went to the same hill with one of our friends, Akira. He seemed off. The smile wore off him, but we knew he was wearing a fake smile. He was not able to blend with the changes, and he said he felt out of place. 'I am too young to feel this nostalgic,' he said. He went away the next day on his birthday, just as he turned 17. He was distant from us again. I passed my 11th year with good grades, and Akira went off to her grandparents during the session break. The Polaroid he gave me started to degrade; his part was getting distorted despite my efforts to keep it safe.
We all stayed in contact. In the month of April, I called Toru to check on him. He seemed happy, really happy. He told us how he was happy in his new school and how he started to open up to people around him. We were glad that Toru had returned to his old extroverted self. For once, we felt our Toru was back. Or so we thought.
I accidentally damaged the Polaroid; Toru's face became distorted. Obviously, I was sad about it, but I kept it, thinking I would fix it when Toru returned during the breaks. In the midst of autumn, as the November air drenched the town with its cozy scent and the leaves began shedding off, I received a call from his mother. Toru was gone. He had taken his life in his dorm room, overdosing on expired pills. The reasons remained shrouded in silence. People whispered how he always appeared happy, like a bright star shining in the night.
His belongings were returned to his residence. Akira and I were given items closest to him, entrusted by his mother because we were the only friends he had truly let in. Among his possessions, I found a note tucked away with letters and cherished trinkets, alongside his vintage camera. Akira took the camera, tears spilling over, saying it reminded her of his love for photography. She stepped outside to weep, she was really close to him. I opened the unsent letter I found tucked away among his things. It read, 'Someday the sun will show up at my door, and for once, it won't feel cold.' The note was left unfinished, as if he ran out of ink. He wasn't able to complete the letter, leaving a part of himself unexpressed.
'Why did he have to die? Why Toru?' The winter crept in, but something had changed. Toru wasn't with us anymore. By the end of it, he completely disappeared from the Polaroid he gave us. It was just me and Akira left in the photo. He was nowhere to be seen. By the end of it, Toru dissipated from our lives completely. The Polaroid became distorted.
A star burns the brightest at the end—who knew Toru would become that star. he died, staying forever 17.
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