"It's always the good ones who die young"

Yellow laid on his bed. He heard his two friends, who he sometimes sees as parents, snore and mumble. He sighed and got up, looking at the window, which was decorated with small raindrops from the storm outside.
He remembers a night like this, but he doesn't understand why he remembers it.

He just waves it off as a small memory from a dream. He couldn't sleep, it wasn't unusual for Yellow. He needed to talk to someone, but who?