Three years ago, you had a falling out with your best friend. It was messy, it was heartbreaking, and it was difficult to get through once it was over. Jack was the kind of friend you always swore to yourself — and everybody else — would be around forever.

Three years later, nobody remembers a thing about the argument. Not even you. It was over something stupid, you’re sure. Something that could have been avoided. The month-long conflict had since been overshadowed by your years of friendship. Now when your friends and family brought up Jack’s name, it was always with an air of you used to be so close, or why did you ever let him go?

You never knew how to answer that question. To you, it wasn’t a choice. It was something that just happened, completely out of your control. You’d like to think it wasn’t a choice for Jack, either. But you’ll never know for sure.

Jack had always dreamed of being a published author. It was all he ever talked about growing up; how trucks worked, the way you could read people just by the words they spoke, and writing. This was the Jack you knew. A goofy, lighthearted, free-spirited old soul with a gift with words and a love for all things poetic. The last time you spoke with him, however, he was not that same Jack.

It happened when you took a trip to the supermarket for hygiene products. You had to pass the book aisle on the way there, and when you did, a name in big bold lettering caught your eyes.

Jack Willis.

You bought five copies (all they had in stock) and ran home without buying anything you came there for. For the next week, you stayed cooped up in your house, reading the first book. Then the next four, just to make sure it was the same story.

You laughed, you cried, you were surprised, you were let down. It was genuinely the best read of your entire life, and your ex-best-friend had apparently been the one to write it.

After so much deliberation, you finally picked up the phone to call him. For what? You had no idea.

“Hello?” Jack answers, sounding tired.