Drake.

It's been a long, long time, but I can still taste cigarette ash, still remember the mattress in the living room... the sound of his voice over the phone, the razor pressing into my flesh... the way he made my breath catch... the blue-haired girl... all the times I've read and re-read the story fragments he's written...

...I wish, desperately wish, that I still had every fragment of story he's sent over the years. I miss him. I hope he's still got the achingly sharp fragment of pure shadow somewhere in him.

I'm gonna go comfort hamsters now.