Sick. That's all people could remember about Thomas. That he had been sick once. A type of cancer that made you so ill people were just waiting for you to drop dead.

But Thomas didn't drop dead, and all their grief had been grieved and now they looked at him like he was a ghost. Even his parents, who had all but picked his coffin, couldn't look into his eyes for very long.

It was a painful existence, being a living ghost. It often made Thomas wish he had died, so their grief could be valid. He walked the sidewalk with his headphones in, brown eyes casted towards the sidewalk. Drops of rain splattered occasionally, but nothing to raise his hood about. He entered the record store, his eyes flicking up towards the guitar hung on the wall.