Sixteen years old.

For most people, this means a start to the dreams of tomorrow, except that unlike the dreams of childhood, these dreams have some real-world perspective. It means the hormones are well kicked in, growth spurts are in process, and noticing that pretty someone sitting at the desk across the row is part of the daily ritual. It means that you know where you stand in regards to your friends and enemies, but you start really questioning yourself, and who you are in your own skin. It means you have a sense of what you like; sports, clothes, music. It means rebelling against your parents and the system, and starting to take a stand for those obscure things people like to call morals.

I'm not most people.

At sixteen, I'm Mail "Matt" Jeevas, chain smoker, functional alcoholic, gamer, hacker and runaway. I'm the guy that doesn't leave his shitty New York apartment if he can avoid it, preferring to have my cigarettes, tequila, food and new games delivered to the door I never open. I'm the guy who's so pale from lack of vitamin D that the few people who do see me call me 'Ghost'. I'm the guy who cruises bars two or three times a week, looking for a blonde to spend the night with, making sure I'm drunk enough to not really be able to tell one from another, and enough to know that when I wake up and their gone, not to think of him. Knowing that doing so would feel like such a bitter betrayal that I'd want to put myself out like a cigarette.

But love's a bitch, betrayal hurts, and he fucking started it.

I found only enough to know he's in America- tracking him is like being asleep, never really being sure of the connection between times, places, dates. America was the only solid lead, and I could afford a rough town like New York. Hell, if anything, it might prove to him that I can stand on my own.

Or maybe not. If he walked in, right now, I think I know what he'd say: You Goddamned idiot.

So maybe the alcohol wasn't the best idea, but Christ Mel, have you ever been in that much pain? You know how I found out you'd left? Near. For Chrissake Mello, Near! Now I guess I'm following you, like a 'Goddamned idiot', holding on to the only stable thing I've ever encountered. Or maybe the smokes are rotting my brain, because you know no one else could ever think of you as stable, not by any means. Not when you'd as soon king hit them as hold a conversation.

But I was always the exception, wasn't I?

You never hit me, Mello. You never could. You'd threaten me, sure, but the few times you meant those threats, I could see the guilt in your eyes. You hated that mask, the violent façade you wore so well around everyone else. But I was your best friend. Once, after a fight, you hugged me tightly, and whispered into my shoulder you never wanted to become the man you pretended to be.

So, have you?

Are you who I read about on the net, when I'm sober enough to continue the chase? The Angel of Death, they call you. Appropriate for a Catholic- more appropriate for you. You're not even six feet tall – unless you've grown a lot this past year – and you're the shadow on the mind of the underworld. They say you're a killer with a conscience. That you only murder the guilty, and that you go out of your way to avoid hurting anyone not involved in your game. Funny, you'd think the other mafia guys would think that was weak.

But they fear you, Mello.

And so do I.

I fear what I've missed. I fear that you're not only the man you pretended to be, but nothing other than a mercenary, killing not those who are guilty, just those who it would benefit you to kill. You've always picked your targets, Mel, and someone outside your world would be too insignificant to kill, am I right?

Does that mean you'd kill me?

You might, but there again, I guess I'm willing to take that risk, following you the way I am. Do you ever think of me? Can you remember innocence, Mello? Because we were innocent, running through that forest out the back of Wammy's, falling exhausted to sleep in the library, tailing L when he was there, like little ducklings. Do you even remember why you left?

I can't blame L for dying- no, I won't blame him. Part of me, though, thinks he could have won that case if he'd wanted to. I honestly think, by the end, that he wasn't certain he wanted to win; to win would mean staying alive, but it would mean killing the one he was certain was Kira, this Light Yagami guy. You know what, Mello? I know how he felt. I could win this race of mine by walking away, by committing you to pages in my memory. I know for certain I'd live longer if I did. But like L, I don't want to. Because if I walk away, I know you'll die before you reach your goal, whatever it may be right now.

And like L, I won't do that. I can't do that to you.

So, I'll keep tracking you, keep worrying that I'll never find you, or that who I find won't be you anymore. I think that would kill me, if there was no trace of my friend in those eyes. But even if there wasn't on the surface, I may have been third, but I'm still a detective, or trained as one at least.

So, if I can, I'll find you. Then I'll help you find yourself.

Because that's what friends are for.