#permanent record

The earthy smell of rain filled the air, and the dim, flickering street lights illuminated the scene. The pavement was coated in a thin layer of water, and the puddles in the dips of concrete reflected the shine of car and traffic lights.

The weight of Chris' shoulders fell upon yours as he laid his head and wet eyes on you, the stream of tears seeping in through the thin material of your flannel. His words were unintelligible, every breath shallow and quick, as he choked on each syllable he tried to express. His arms wrapped around you like he swore to never let go, almost as if he'd lose someone else if he did.

The whole world around you began to stop. Passers-by and loud trucks faded into oblivion, and the only things that orbited you were Chris’ tears and the memories of David Sinclair.

“I should've told him. I should've… I'm his best friend…” He managed to speak, barely legible through his vigorous crying.

You reassuringly patted him on the back, but in his dazed state, he turned both of you around as he made you stare at the rusty metal car. The one he drove in. Drunk.

At this point, he bordered screaming rather than sobbing, “And I almost hit his fucking brother! I'm such an asshole! Fuck! Fuck me! I'm a fuc—”

More aggressive sobs. His string of cursing was immediately put to a halt by his cries, his grip on you becoming tighter, as if that could happen. It was hard to tell if it was the grief or alcohol that spoke in the moment, or maybe it was both, but either way, his mental state crumbled by the second.

“It's… it's not okay, I know, but David would've wanted this to be … perfect.” You whispered to him, his breathing slowly steadying.

“But… but…” His breathy rebuttals failed to come out.

You shushed him, “He's already gone. He told us what to do. He wanted us to continue.”