Noah went missing a few days ago. I have no idea where he is, and nobody has a clue either. I tried, or we all tried to look for him. Me, Alyssa, Mark, Jonathan. A whole search party was conducted in order to find him. The cops think he ran away, but that’s not like him. He wouldn’t do that, would he?

No, no. He wouldn’t do that.

Thinking of what could have happened until I was pulled out of my trance.

“Violet, are you okay?” Mark asks, looking a bit worried.

Here we were all four of us, sitting at our spot , my house. Sitting in our usual places, but I look beside me and one is vacant. I shook my head “uh, yeah. I’m fine.” I assure him.

“Are you sure?” Alyssa pipes in “you seem kinda… stressed” I glare at them.

Well of course I’m stressed. My best friend is missing. My best friend since we were born. The same friend that has consoled me when my father died, or when my mom got sick.The same best friend that spent almost everyday with me after school on the same park bench. The same best friend that shared snacks with me every Friday watching a movie.

“No. I’m fine” I reply, almost mumbling. They all begin talking about, well, god knows what they are talking about. As they talk I play with the hem of my hoodie that was a bit too big for me, and suddenly realizing it wasn’t mine, but Noah’s. I sigh.

As I’m sitting there I think to myself, how could they just sit there and talk, like nothing even happened? I stared at basically nothing, zoning out.

That’s until Jonathan turned his head abruptly facing the front door. The door made a creaking sound, i instinctively move my head towards the sound.

There was a collective gasp of dread and concern. I stood up, staring in absolute shock.

Noah. Noah’s here. Noah’s here and he’s covered in blood. His shirt is stained, his pants and his shoes as well. Maybe it’s not blood? No, of course it’s blood!

I quickly rush over to him, tears beginning to form in my eyes as i rush over, cupping his face inspecting him for any cuts or wounds, any injury. And part of me was checking if he was really there, like I’m not hallucinating or anything. Like I’m not going crazy.

He reaches for my hand, grabbing my wrist softly and moving it away.

“I’m fine.” He says. “It’s not my blood.”