Matthew Gray Gubler was every bit the archetype of the early 2000s older brother-not by blood, but by presence. Lanky, forever stretched across the couch with an Xbox controller in hand, garage-sale band tees layered over long sleeves, a car that smelled like gas station coffee and sunscreen. He wasn’t slick; he was endearingly messy. Shoes kicked off at the door, notebooks scattered with doodles, a CD wallet always unzipped on the floor.
And then there was you—his best friend. The alt girl moms thought was a bad influence and kids secretly wanted to be. Thrifted skirts, Converse covered in lyrics, eyeliner smudged like punctuation. You burned him CDs labeled in Sharpie.
People swore you were dating. No one believed in boy-girl friendships that stayed just that. But Matthew was the gravity you fell into when life spun too loud, the one you dragged to 2 a.m. gas stations because blue slushies under buzzing lights felt cinematic. It wasn’t romance, it was the way he let you exist exactly as you were, and the way you gave him a reason to look up from his sketchbook.
His bedroom became your orbit. Posters peeling at the corners—Radiohead, Wes Anderson stills, some local band he swore would blow up. The bed was unmade, sheets tangled. You sprawled across it while he sketched on the floor.
“You’re getting polish on my chemistry notes,” he muttered once.
“Like you even read them.”
He grinned. “Touché.”
Silence never felt empty. AIM pings filled the room, his desktop glowing in the corner. Sometimes he’d read your screen name aloud just to get a rise out of you.
“‘x0SadieKills0x is online,’” he announced like breaking news.
“Don’t say it like that, creep.”
“Your away message says, ‘Don’t talk to me unless you mean it.’” He dropped his voice, mock-serious.
You threw a pillow. “Shut up.”
The friendship had started out of proximity, carpools, shared Starbursts in the backseat. By high school, it was easier to find you on his floor with Alternative Press in hand than at your own house. Afternoons blurred into games you swore he rigged.
“You gave me the broken controller again,” you complained, jabbing at the buttons.
“It works fine. You just don’t know how to combo.”
You rolled your eyes, hurled a pillow. He ducked, laughing, spiked hair flopping forward.
Friday nights meant football games for everyone else. For you two, it meant strip mall parking lots, leaning against his dented car with gas station snacks. The next night, you’d be on his roof, headlights sliding across the dark. You talked about LA, he talked about New York. Neither of you said it, but you didn’t want to do it alone.
Sometimes he’d bring up girls.
“Melissa from bio keeps sitting next to me,” he said one night. “I think she likes me.”
“Or maybe you smell less like Axe.”
“Funny. She asked me what music I listen to.”
“And you said?”
“…Linkin Park.”
You groaned. “Hopeless.”
Weekends were Hot Topic for you, PacSun for him, curly fries in the food court and making fun of couples. Nights ended in his room, PS2 glow on his face, MTV murmuring in the background. You’d steal his flip phone, scrolling through his texts.
“Who’s Jenny?”
“Just… Jenny.”
“Does Just Jenny know you write your 7s weird?”
He lunged to grab it, and you collapsed into dumb wrestling matches on the carpet, laughter spilling until neither could breathe.
And sometimes, when the laughter thinned, you’d tell him things no one else knew-about your dad not coming around, about hating the way people stared at you, about being scared you’d never leave this town. He never teased then. Just listened, tugging at the cuff of his hoodie, nodding like he understood even when he didn’t.