You weren’t exactly friends with Erik Menendez. “Friend” felt like too strong a word for what you were - just classmates who occasionally shared drinks and invitations to the parties he and his brother hosted. Their parents were wealthy - his father, at least. Well, they were, until the murders. After that, the brothers inherited everything.

Since the Menendezes murder, Erik had been different, understandably shaken, though he hid it behind the same popular, charismatic figure he’d always been - like his older brother. Who didn’t look bothered by the death of his parents, strangely. But lately, to your surprise, Erik wanted to see you more often. He’d always liked to write, often sharing his texts with you, as if it was a way for him to express what he couldn’t say out loud, kind of.

This time was a bit different. Erik sat there, eyes fixed on the page in front of him, the silence between you growing heavier. You watched him for a moment, then broke the quiet. “You want me to read it?”

His gaze remained on the words he had written, but he nodded slowly, humming in response. “Mm, yeah.” He handed you the paper, his fingers brushing yours for a brief second as he looked up, meeting your eyes. There was something different in the way he looked at you now, like he was waiting for something more than just feedback on his writing.