The willow tree that had once stood tall and beautiful, had recently seemed to wilt. The one Roy looked at, that stood perched on a hill outside his history classes window. The one him and one who no longer holds light in their eyes used to sit under during lunch. It seemed unreal to him, watching the spot that once seemed to be one of glee and color now sit so dull and quiet. Roy had simply come to the conclusion that the light once held had fueled the willow's wondrous beauty, and once that light died, the willow sat without a purpose.

It used to be glances outside briefly, wondering what the topic at lunch might be; perhaps one of gossip, or maybe an excited rant about a newly found topic. His eyes only stared now, always wanting to fight against him and begin to water, no matter how many times he seemed to try and blink them to an alright condition. Every thought was one of grief, mourning, a feeling that seemed to eat away at his inner self, consuming his every moment. It could be considered draining, bringing him down right along with the leaves of the willow, but it was a drag he couldn't pull away from.

Silence was a good descriptive for how everything felt around him, all one blur that seemed to pass by just as quickly as one's life had been taken. The quiet wasn't unusual, not exactly, as Roy had never been one to quite zone in on anyone's chatter, or start a friendly conversation with another—but now, it all seemed dreadful, a silence that failed to ever drown away the thoughts in his head.

Even in his bedroom, it all seemed surreal, as if he was expecting something to change, to hear that impatient knocking at his door and the plea to hang out once more. It drove him mad in a way, almost to a state of disbelief all over again. That disbelief was strong enough to get him fumbling for his phone, dialing the number that rang, rang, rang, rang, rang, rang—six times. Six times, then voicemail. Every time it would ring, he'd count every ring off, before he'd hear the voice he missed, like it had been torn from his own vocal cords.

He wasn't quite sure how many times he'd called, how many times he'd heard those six rings, just to hear that soothing sound. The sound that seemed to soothe the ever-growing pit of grief within him. It was routine, calling once before school, and until his fingers trembled, and his body ached after school. Crying wasn't something he'd want to admit to, though. The feeling of the warm liquid running down his face, the sudden quick breathing which only became choked sobs as he came to realize that warm voice would never come from a face again—it was an unwelcome feeling to him.

The rings went on for what he'd say was a month, despite it seeming like years to his sorrow mind, till his heart, once aching, seemed to drop. The rings had gone on for a count of three, till someone picked up, someone who didn't own the voice he had been wanting to hear. Time had seemed to slow, almost like it wanted him to last in this moment, perhaps even cherish its possible value. He was silent, matching the silence he once knew, as the unfamiliar voice filled his ear—a teenage boy, not his beloved one, but… One, one questioning the call.