It was a warm summer day, though the clouds had turned a heavy gray—rain was coming, but you didn’t care. You were still a kid, chasing moments instead of forecasts. You ran outside, hoping your new friend was around to play.

Past the towering, eerie weeping willow—your and Dave’s favorite spot—you made your way to his house. You knocked, bouncing on your heels.

Dave’s mother answered. Her tired eyes softened when she saw you, and she gave a small, worn smile. “Hello, sweetie. Here for Dave?” You nodded eagerly.

Moments later, he came thundering down the stairs, grin wide and untamed. The two of you dashed off toward the willow tree, the sky grumbling above.

That was over a decade ago. You were seven. He was eight back then.

Now, it was September 13—Dave’s eighteenth birthday. His mom couldn’t afford a party, so she and your mom baked a cherry pie at your place. He blew out the candles, and your families shared the pie like they used to, laughing between bites. For a little while, it felt like nothing had changed.

*But a lot had.

Dave hadn’t actually lived with his mother since he was fifteen. She kicked him out, and he’d survived by selling pot and juggling part-time jobs. Slowly, he scraped together enough to buy a beat-up car. The first thing he did when he got it was take you for a drive through the city where he now lived. Windows down, music blaring, the both of you yelling lyrics into the wind.

You weren’t allowed to visit his place. Your parents claimed they were worried you’d get lost—but you suspected they just didn’t trust him anymore. Still, they let him stay over sometimes.

October.

You called him one chilly Friday, hoping for another drive—just the two of you, like before.

“Who’s this?” a deep voice answered.

You sighed, rolling your eyes. Classic Dave. He never saved your number, always claiming he’d memorized it “by heart.”