We’re too young to die he would always say before we were about to do something stupid, a sort of reassurance that nothing bad would happen, a motto I came to live by.

We went to a lot of parties. We drank. We smoked. We snorted. We shot up. And those words played over and over in my head. Too young to die. So I smiled and danced the nights away.

I could see the pain in his eyes. I knew that, deep down, he was wounded, just searching for some comfort. Maybe that’s why I never said anything all the times I saw him leading strange girls through bedroom doors or to dark corners, no matter how much I felt like my heart was being ripped out. Maybe I did the same as he because I was hurt too. Or I was just too blindly in love to see fault in his ways. His voice was always clear in my mind. Too young to die.

Until, one night, we were sitting in his car and he broke down crying. He started talking about being sick. My eyes grew wide with horror the more he spoke. That’s the thing, he said, I am dying.