Somewhere was a group of friends in a living room, sharing a toast to the one they had lost. Jane, Annie, and Saoirse could only close their eyes as they tilted their heads back, downing a shot of mid-tier vodka, and canting their heads back down and opening their eyes. They stared at the patterns on the carpet, letting the fire soothe their insides.

“I miss him,” Jane said. They used to walk around campus together, escaping the smog of the city for a little bit of nature's breath. If either of them stepped on a particularly crunchy leaf, that would’ve been the most exciting thing to happen.

Annie just bawled her eyes out, and Saoirse was the one rubbing her back. “Remember?” Saoirse said, “when you were changing and he walked in on you?”

Even as Annie heaved and failed to force her snot and tears back, she still managed to turn and slap her friend on the shoulder. Saoirse laughed. “Said” —Annie snuck the words between her sobs— “the one … who … couldn’t tell … him what you feel…”

It was Saoirse’s turn to slap her shoulder. “Don’t say that out loud!”

“That’s surprising,” Jane said. “You liked him?”

“For a while … yeah.” Saoirse pulled her knees closer together. “I’m glad we stayed friends, though. I don’t think we’d have made a good couple.” She smirked. “Not as good as you.”

Jane smiled, but it quickly turned into a frown. Saoirse hurried to keep the conversation from falling. “How are you doing?” she asked. Jane smiled for her. “You know the last thing I told him? ‘See you.’ And the last thing he told me? ‘Love you.’ It’s just … I could’ve said more. Now I get why he keeps saying it—why it’s always the last thing he says. I should’ve said more.”