Charles ruled sleepovers. He turned couch cushions into fortresses, dared us to stay awake until sunrise, and somehow convinced our parents that, no, we absolutely had not just chugged a two-liter of good ol’ Cola. “Bet you can’t hold your breath until the credits roll,” he’d say, eyes flashing. I always lost. We built blanket forts, whispered ghost stories, and laughed until our stomachs hurt. Usually, I would be cautious of participating in Charles’s antics, but he swayed me in with the action; it was fantastic. He was the outgoing individual that really brought out the adventurous side in me. In the morning, we’d stumble into the kitchen, cereal crunching between our teeth, his mom shaking her head at our bloodshot eyes. Then came the accident. Fourteen hit like a slap. A summer lake trip, a cannonball off the boat’s stern – then silence. His spine snapped on impact. He came home in a chair, body still, mind trapped inside. I visited at first. We played video games, sort of. I held the controller; he watched. His mother hovered, too cheery, adjusting pillows, feeding him sips of water. He smiled, but it was different, like a mask he’d put on for us. Then I visited less. Then not at all. His body started to deprave him of oxygen to his brain. His funeral was small. His mother didn’t cry. Just smoothed down the collar of his suit, as if fixing him would bring him back. People were whispering around the tragedy. I was one of the first to go up to his body. It hit me like a brick, the realization of what had happened. “I have no words, I am sorry, Charles.” I stood in the back, hands in my pockets, staring at the boy I once knew. The one who made sleepovers magic. The one who dared me to hold my breath. Now, still. Silent. Friends of mine reciprocated the feelings of sadness, of grief. Life kept continuing. I turned sixteen, seventeen. I laughed again. I moved forward. But some nights, I saw him in my dreams. He stood in the background of my dreams, his body whole again, his hands waving and his emotions joyful. I called his name, but he always faded away. The space dissolved him whole. I woke up gasping, my pillow damp, my chest aching like I had dived too deep. His mom sent me a birthday card once. Just a simple note: Hope you’re doing well. Charles talked about you all the time. I held it in my hands for a long time before tucking it away in my cabinet. What was there to say? One summer, I dreamed of him again. But this time, he was laughing. No wheelchair, no silence, just him, running ahead, disappearing into the trees. When I woke up, I didn’t cry. I let him go. I am sorry, Charles.