He was, out of all the boys that have ever came and gone, the most comfortable one I’ve ever been with. He was a pillow among these beds of rocks and boulders – so who could blame me if I leaned on him a little more often? He was comfort and safety and a drive on an empty highway as the sun retired for the evening. He was a shoulder to lean on, a constant warmth at my side, fingertips lightly pinching sleeves. He was peaceful lunch times at that secret corner where no one passed by, and loud pop music at the end of class when no one else was left in the room. It was his hands I held as we skidded across the hallways laughing, his arm I clung on to as I crept towards the uncertainty of tomorrow. He was the pillow I kept hugging, even when I was finally on a bed full of cotton. He was childish laughter and gross picking of noses – and as we aged and grew apart, I couldn’t help but cling on to every pillow I could find, trying to ignore the fact that every single one were just feathers wrapped in cloth, sans warmth, sans childhood memories, sans a friendship I’ve grown too fond of.