I woke up to my phone ringing. Nick was usually up by now, so, without opening my eyes, I muttered--
          “Nick. Grab that, will you?”
          No answer.
          “Nick?”
          No answer. I opened my eyes, and let the yellow sunlight burn my retinas. I looked over at Nick’s desk and loft. Empty.
          “I’ll get it myself then, Goddamnit!” I said aloud, mostly to wake myself up. I climbed off of my loft, and answered the phone.
          “Hello?” I said, rubbing my eyes.
          At first, there were just muffled sniffles. Then a voice.
           “Hey Holden, this is Nick’s dad. I was on my way to pick up Nick for summer break, when the cops called me this morning. They told me that Nick is dead. He was killed, drunk driving. I’m on my way to pick up Nick’s stuff and visit the morgue.” I could hear the beginning of a sob as I hung up.
          I shuddered as I took a deep breath, sighing as I released it. A chill went up my spine. Nick was dead. He was gone and not coming back. That meant I was alone. I hated being alone with the feeling of death in the air. I pulled out my phone, and looked at the latest picture of Nick and me. However, what I saw was a distant look in his eye, his slight smile. There were dark circles under his eyes, from, perhaps, depression, lack of sleep, or both. I looked at an earlier picture of him, and he was beaming. Odd. I though. Very odd. All of the recent pictures, since March, he looks all solemn. But before March, he looks… Delighted. Must be finals. 
Nick’s dad called back about an hour later with an odd update.
          “There must have been something wrong with the car.” Nick’s father croaked into the phone. “The toxicology results were negative. I just thought I would let you know. I’m about two hours out..”
          “Thank you, sir.” I said, before hanging up.
          My head was spinning.
          About an hour and a half after the phone call from Nick’s father, I was going through his stuff and organizing it to make it easier on his dad, when I came across an envelope with my name on it. I opened it and read.
          “Holden, sit down. This is my suicide note. I’m driving off a cliff tonight. I would say, “And don’t try to stop

          me”, but by the time you read this, it will be too late. Sure, I’m afraid. But it’s better then going back there. Back

          to that house. With that man. I can’t face him again. My father did bad stuff to me. I know he loved me, but he did

          bad stuff to me. From as far back as I can remember, he would sneak into my room at night. When I was very

          little, he told me that he loved me best, which made me feel special. In a creepy way. But, special. He picked me and I

          felt his love. The older I got, the more confusing it was, and the anger built inside me. It was like a dream that,

          over time, evolved into a nightmare. I took that psych class last semester, and when we did that unit on sexual

          abuse, in March(ish), I sort of connected the dots and realized what was wrong with me. My dad plans on picking

          me up tomorrow. He insists that I come back home. In my eyes, he wants to go back to the days where I was helpless.

          The days that I did not know any better. I just can’t see his face one more time. I didn't mean to drag you into

          all of this. I just thought you should know why I killed myself. It’s not your fault. Really, man. 
          Your buddy, 
          Nick”
          I opened and closed my mouth several times, not knowing what I think. Well, actually, I knew exactly what I think. And I had just finished reading his suicide note. His suicide note, addressed in the gold Sharpie that I had given him as part of his birthday present. Then I started to freak out a little bit. I gotta tell someone. This is the kind of thing people report. I thought. But, who do I tell? How do I tell them? What am I gonna do? My thoughts were interrupted by a soft knock at the door, and I jumped about a mile. I opened the door, and Nick’s father filled the frame.