Dear Noah,
I remember your exact words that night. The ocean was pouring down on the streets when you called.
"I'm outside."
You didn't want to wake up my parents.
When I opened the door, your curls were flattened down by the rain. Your eyes where red. I should have know right there and then that you were falling. Maybe if I looked deep enough I could see how your mind was crumbling. Like a skycraper, being blown up from the first floor. First there's the impact. Then the agonising moment in which it's not quite clear how vital the damage is. Then comes the fall. You can only watch until it hits the ground and shatters into something that is no longer a skyscapper but merely it's raw ingredients. You were not quite falling yet. You were still gabbing onto every bit of balance you had left. I should have seen the hole it blew in you. I should have know when you whispered:
"We have to build a boat."
