“Happy seventeenth birthday!” I say as i put the gift down between us, the sun brightening the day. He’s not reacting, he just says “I’m not turning seventeen,” with a straight expression. “What?” I ask in confusion as i sit down on the soft couch. “I’m still fifteen,” he says, his expression as still as a stone. “What?” I repeat, and suddenly the sun wasn’t so bright on the sky. The couch had turned to cold grass. The gift i put down was a bouquet with his favorite flowers. And i realized I wasn’t talking to my best friend. I was talking to his name carved in a stone.
(Happy birthday to my angel. I miss you so much. Fly high)