*Note: the story may be read alongside the song Ballade No. 1 in G Minor, O. 23 by Chopin 
 
"I promise." 
"Are you sure?" 
"No one with a beautiful dream is ever sure of it." 
 
The crumpled envelope glowers at me from across the room. It's a small, lumpy parcel, with my name scrawled on it using that expensive fountain pen Wyatt received last Christmas. A lump gathers in the back of my throat. 
He'll never open another present. 
He'll never laugh at another one of my terrible jokes. 
He'll never have his first kiss. 
Because he's dead. 
 
It's the first night of the summer, when everyone gets drunk on stars and wishes. It's a night of making promises we can't keep. 
 
My fingers tense, clenching the armrest desperately, as if they could protect me from the inevitable reality of his absence. 
To Addy from Wyatt. The words stare at me, filling the room with an unnerving silence. 
My name is Addy. I'm no hero, yet no villain. I am simply a broken girl. 
For a long time, I was fine. Like a white crayon. Neglected and ignored, but never broken, because I was never used. Only a tool to shade someone else's picture. I'd sit forever at the bottom of the box. Never broken, but never truly loved. 
If your heart forgets to love, it strikes you harder when it arrives. You can't escape. You've lived your life sailing in sunshine, and the first dark clouds cause you to sink. There are so many holes in the boat you never noticed, so many flaws in the design. Unlike other boats, which have weathered many storms, you were unprepared for this one. Yet, you can't help but let the whirlpool draw you in, because no matter how clearly awful an idea it is, the eye of the hurricane feels worth everything in between. 
 
The words fell from his lips with no hesitation. 
It's the most confident lie he's ever told. 
I gaze towards the horizon. There are still traces of the sunset, the smears of orange, purple, and gold all swirling, gradually overtaken by the deep blue ocean of stars. 
 
Pale skin hurts more when scorched for the first time, I've learned. I know I can't begin to fathom what kind of person he truly was or would grow to be. Would we have stayed friends a long time? Or would he have grown tired of me? 
The letter holds the answer, and I refuse to find it. Deep down, I know the truth, and I can't bear to have it spelled out in front of me. 
He may have been my best friend, I think, but I wasn't his. 
True. It's surprising you even managed to be his friend at all...But he wasn't the perfect friend, was he? After all, there was a reason you didn't visit him in the hospital, whispers a small part of me. 
I wish he was, but I have no right to say that after what he did. 
 
I stand, still and rooted, while Wyatt passes me and sits down at a new table. He's laughing, head tipped back. From the angle he's seated, he should be able to see me, but either he doesn't, or he doesn't want to, because I am left unacknowledged. It's fine, I tell myself, it's not like he can't have other friends. But some little part of me insists he should be sitting next to me, under the apple tree, where we always have sat. 
 
I deserve every moment that reminds me of him. I create problems for myself because the ones already there aren't enough; I'm just searching for something. A reason. It's like suddenly I'm allowed to be sad. I feel awful, so selfish, because half the reason I'm upset isn't because my greatest friend is dead. 
 
"It's okay," I whispered, blinking back tears. It's not, I want to scream, you hurt me, and it's not okay. There's always a little pain behind it's okay. A little emotion behind "I don't care." A little knowledge behind "I don't know." A little truth behind "just kidding." He doesn't seem to notice as he turns, content with my response. Would I, if I were in his place? 
Maybe it's hardest to notice when you hurt those that love you. 
 
My eyes flick from the letter, tired of its cold presence. The piano, unused and likely soon to begin gathering dust, draws me from my seat. I ease onto the bench. I haven't touched the keys since he left. 
Some say silence is the loudest. Others believe it's the entire opposite of noise. Yet silence isn't simply what sound is not. It is the absence of noise and a message of its own. The pauses in beauty and the peace of passing silence create their own wonder. 
However, this silence I loathe. This constricting, cold lack of noise, this suppression. The world is muted and lifeless. I long to fill the void. 
The feel of the piano comforts my fingertips, which have been restless recently. I press into the keys, my fingers moving without my guidance. Liebesleid, by Rachmaninoff. Love's Sorrow. Originally meant to be a duet for both piano and violin, the song is often played solo, as I play now. 
As the music swells, I watch, distantly, as teardrops plink against the ivory keyboard. It feels like I'm watching the world from a foggy window, half there, half not. I didn't notice I was crying. 
I miss Wyatt. I miss the boy with bright eyes that matched the clear sky, the boy who who ate vanilla ice cream until he got sick, the boy who dreamt of dreams like stars; so big and bright they had to burn out. 
 
"Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss, you'll land among the stars." 
"I don't care much for stars." 
"Maybe you'll make it to the moon." 
"Would I stay?" 
"Maybe not forever, but long enough to remember it." 
 
I hate remembering, but some things are impossible to forget. 
 
We're sitting on the rooftop, legs hanging over, heads angled to the stars. We sit pressed close enough together that I can feel his warmth. 
 
The song soon comes to a close. The tears don't. I watch, distantly, as if viewing another person, as my body rises out of the chair. 
 
He stares at me. There is no hint of recognition, no hint of the boy on the rooftop. It's as if he sees me for the first time, but not in a good way. He's slipped, far away from me, and to the kids that laugh at other's expense. The kids that have laughed at my expense. 
"No one likes you, Addy." 
I can feel my carefully constructed armor slipping away. It crumbles at the slightest touch from him, because I'd done the one thing I swore I'd never do. I let myself become vulnerable. I'd let myself deeply, truly, love someone. 
 
Every step I take towards the letter feels like trudging through sludge. When I finally reach the table, my eyes flicker in and out, blurring until I can't tell what's real and what's not. 
I close my eyes and breathe. 
 
"I promise." 
"Are you sure?" I tilt my head to see his face. Wyatt's lips are curved up in the faint smile he wears when he's thinking. 
"No one with a beautiful dream is ever sure of it." He turns his head for a moment to face me, his face illuminated with the sunset's glow. The words fell from his lips with no hesitation. It's the most confident lie he's ever told. I gaze towards the horizon. There are still traces of the sunset, the smears of orange, purple, and gold all swirling, gradually overtaken by the deep blue ocean of stars. 
"Is this a beautiful dream?" I ask finally. We're sitting on the rooftop, legs hanging over, heads angled to the stars. We sit pressed close enough together that I can feel his warmth. 
Wyatt pauses to think. "Yeah. It's one I'll never forget." We listen to the crickets, chirping brusquely in the crisp night air. "I could never forget such an ugly face." He adds, smirking. I poke his arm lightheartedly. 
We watch the sky, enveloped in the hum of the first summer night. 
It's the first night of the summer, when everyone gets drunk on stars and wishes. It's a night of making promises we can't keep. 
 
Tick. Tock. The clock seems to chide my recent lapse. My trembling fingers close around the envelope. 
I carefully tear the envelope open and unfold the truth I should have faced long ago. The script is shaky and uneven but undoubtedly his handwriting. 
 
It really was a beautiful dream. Don't ever forget it. 
 
I wonder...Maybe promises, even in death, can be kept. And maybe, people, even in death, can be friends once more. 
 
"Will you always remember me?" 
"I promise."