50 of 50 Songs and Chapters Dedicated to the Friend I Lost Too Soon

I wake up in a bed, rolling so quickly everything I'm passing by is blurry. I'm surrounded by those terrifying people in blue uniforms and long white coats that I didn't miss one bit, and they're shouting in medical language that I don't understand. There's a high pitched ring every time I move my head, but I keep doing it anyway -- trying to make out the faces running after me from behind.

They're from the wedding. I recognize the clothes, but I can't pick out one face to another. That is, I can't pick out anyone besides Jewee. Him, I can't ignore because he's screaming. I can tell by the expression on his face and nothing besides it. Droplets are escaping down his face and this time he doesn't try to hide them like he usually did.

The wedding. What happened to the wedding? How did I end up here? Why am I here? I shouldn't be here. Is this death? Is death calling my name? Is that why everything is ringing? I don't know. I've never been here before to visit death. Is that what's breathing on me?

Unfair. It's unfair that death should have the power to take away someone that other people love, people that were beginning a new chapter in life. I didn't mean to hurt anyone. I don't want to hurt him, but I can't stop what's happening. The thought of what I'm doing to these people is killing me in a boxing match. They can't talk to me ever again? Laugh with me? Hold me? That can't really be the case. It's too difficult to bear. It's too much for anyone.

I can hear again. It's brief and shallow, but it's there.

"You can't die yet, Shyne. You can't! The list, we haven't finished the list yet, remember? I told you we were going to feel the joy you're supposed to feel when a kitten lets us hold them. I told you I would find a way to make it possible, but I haven't done it yet. Don't do this to me, Princess. We're not done! We're not done yet! And-- and! The movie adaptation to your novel comes out today. I didn't get the chance to tell you. We should be celebrating. Wake up, okay? Wake up."

A tear falls down my cheek, listening. It's come into perspective that time is not what we do with it. It's what time does to us. There's so many moments that have passed us by that we don't even realize. We may have escaped death and dangers so many times and we have no idea. We might've been a fingertip away from a new accomplishment, but we gave up too soon and missed out on it. Life is a series of fall shorts, and Jewee was mine.

He said our story was a crazy one, and he was right. Our hatred for each other got us through things that we wouldn't have, and if I had forever, I'd say that I wouldn't have it any other way too, but I don't, and that's why I have to disagree. I should've spent the time I had loving him and allowing nothing else to get in the way, because there wasn't time for anything else.

I'm nothing now. Nothing besides a body rotting away beneath a flower bed. I'm closer to that than to life itself, and as it grazes my hand the most I can do is mentally promise that I'll hold him wherever I go, whatever happens to me, but he'll never know. How do I fight? Can I fight? I don't think I can. I don't know how. It's too hard.

The bed stops. What I thought was the speed of it travelling at thousands of miles per hour is wrong, because the room is still spinning. It's all in my head. My head won't allow me see straight.

"You're wearing mismatched socks." Jewee grabs a hold of my foot. It feels small in his long, slender fingers, but his sobs make me feel small from head to toe anyways. He takes off on a ramble, blaming himself over ideas that don't make any sense. "What if the mismatched socks are bad luck? This is all my fault. That time I tripped and twisted my ankle in matching socks was purely a coincidence because this -- this is too big. I'm so stupid. Look what I've done."

I clench the muscles in my arms, fingers and toes. Everything goes sore, but I can't give up. I have to say something. He's not going to blame himself for the rest of his life for a tiny artifact of preference -- out of his own personal and lovable chaos.

"No," I manage. "It's lucky."

I can't finish. Those are my last words. They're the last burst I have in me.

I want to say that it's lucky because they're far more than mismatched socks. They're proof that he's impacted my life to the tiniest fragment. They're proof that it's thanks to him that I believe in luck to begin with. They're proof that the last face I want to see is his. They're proof that he's the only thing that matters, but I can't. My body has fallen back into the mattress, and I could see my energy fly above my head, dispersing from my body.

"Shyne? Jaiva Shyne? Can you hear me?" He's shaking me, pulling on my arm, cupping my cheeks, but it's not enough. I can't absorb his energy while I'm losing mine.

He starts to get it. He starts to let go of me. He starts to set me free, but he doesn't want to. He wants to pin me down, and he knows that he can't. It's conflicting to him. He doesn't know if he should keep trying or if he should let me be. That is, until he decides there's not any choice. That what has to be done, has to be done. "I'll see you in Paradise, Jaiva Shyne."

And right there, I knew that when I died, a little piece of him died with me.

All we are are fifty tracks of song. Fifty tracks of song that eventually end. Fifty tracks that should've had an infinity still coming.