detachment ✔

35

The crack of dawn, and only a few hours after I found out about Felix's suicide. As I stare at the still water of the river, everything else seems to fit in. It's like the dawn sparked the birth of something else, something different.

Now that I know the truth about Felix, it feels like my conscience has been put to rest. He is still dead, but somehow I feel like it would have been worse if he was murdered brutally by the Clashers. I would do anything to bring him back, but I can't. I miss him every day, and I'll always miss him in my life.

I rub my thumb and my index against the smooth paint brush, the one he always used for his paintings. Felix's flat was a mess; paint covered every corner of the room with doodles, sketches and graffiti. But he loved those white walls more than anything. If there's one thing I remember about Felix, it's the weekends he spent with a liquor bottle in his hand, his art brush on the other.

I remember when I went to New York, and I was completely wasted while he was texting me a Happy New Year. But the only thing I cared about was Dylan. I feel like shit about that, because the closer I got to Dylan the further I moved away from Felix.

That guilt will never leave me, no matter how many years go by. But that was my fault, not Dylan's. I was the one with the unbalance, not him.

I toss the art brush into the stream, watching it sink for a few seconds before rising to the surface again. He always used this brush, so I hope Felix takes it with him in further waters. Dylan's arms remain at my waist, holding me gently as we both stare at the water, watching the small ripples carry away the brush.

"And Josh?" Dylan whispers in my hair, his hand now resting on my back. I stare at the brush, slowly fading away into the distance.

"Who knows, maybe thousands of miles away, where he can wreck someone weaker than me. Someone he thinks won't get up, like I did."