It was one of those days where the sky feels fake. Blue in a way that seems digitally retouched. My roommates and I didn’t have plans, just inertia, so we decided to walk from Bellevue to Kirkland. No destination, just movement. The kind of aimless day that makes you feel young and whole and not important.

We laughed a lot. Talked about nothing. Walked too far. It felt good. I felt good.

I don’t remember walking back, but we must have. I was back in the apartment when my phone rang. My dad’s name on the screen. I answered with some joke ready to go. I don’t remember what it was. Doesn’t matter. He cut me off mid-sentence.

“Andy. Andy, this is serious. Jamie died.”

There was a pause. My body heard it before I did. Then I said “I have to go” and hung up. Not out of rudeness. Just because the world went offline.

I got in my car and drove to the store. I bought a fifth of liquor. Came home. I don’t remember anything after that.

It wasn’t even to mourn him. I drank because I didn’t know what else to do. Because grief didn’t have a shape yet but alcohol did. Alcohol had always had its job, and this was its moment.

He was dead. I was gone. And the day, bright and pointless and full of nothing, was over.