I tried telling myself otherwise, that I was just overreacting, but I was certain something within me died after that night. How fucking melodramatic.

I felt hardened and derelict, and I spoke to no one.

I felt worthless for thinking that my life was ruined over a stupid girl. I tried convincing myself that there were billions of other people in the world, suffering, dying, praying, and losing at life every minute, and that compared to them, I had it good.

But even that was no condolence.

I felt hollow. Like there was no reason for me to be wasting precious air on this earth anymore.

And suddenly, somehow the whole fucking world came to fall on my shoulders, without warning. Everyone else's problems became my responsibility because I wasn't responsible enough to keep watch on my own life.

I was a shell. June had sliced me open and gutted out whatever security I so vulnerably kept within my body.

But the pain turned from June and struck its blows at me, and suddenly her infidelity was my fault too. I should've seen it coming. I should've known I was nothing but a stepping-stone, a fun little romp. Everyone sees, but just passes on by. I was wrong to think I had a chance at an actual relationship. What a laugh.

Mark Cohen doesn't need love! He only gives it. He exists solely to serve others- to give his all and receive nothing in return...

I was exactly like Roger in that I was a tool. But I scorned Roger too.

Why did he ever need me except for something in return? To follow my advice. To be inspired by my pep talks and to gain self-confidence by my kind words and unconditional care. All I did was give, give, give, and for what? To be used. To be dumped. And in Roger's case, one single phone call in five months, asking me to come and give some more. Because he couldn't handle the life laid out for him on a golden platter. He'd said it himself. He was unhappy because he was fucking spoiled.

I had to work for every last gift and necessity in my life just to use them on people without an ounce of gratitude in their veins.

And then I immediately extinguished those thoughts. I wasn't allowed to be that selfish. The right people would find their way into my life when the time was correct, I knew that. I was a smart boy. I'd been blessed with the gift of friendship and enough sense to use it on those who needed it.

And then those contradicting thoughts were stomped out right back. I didn't need to apologize for anyone. I wasn't being selfish. I was facing reality.

I made sure my camera never left my side again. I needed to film people, not interact with them. I wanted a purpose? Well here it was. It'd been there all along. I could live vicariously through others. I couldn't trust them. But I could record them.

--

Benny tried fruitlessly to cheer me up. I was detached and despondent and any real attempts at conversation were cut short by me leaving the room with my fists balled, leaving Benny standing spurned and clueless.

He vocally counted down the days until I left to see Roger- as if I should be excited and look forward to Roger's discrepancy and dependency on my philosophies to set a path for his own wretched survival.

I thought of staying in Rhode Island- but then what kind of friend would I be? My thoughts kept turning on themselves and I couldn't make sense of anything.

I might be broken inside but I still had love to give and enough compassion for other humans to function by the Golden Rule.

I took precautions.

I rewrote my own values.

I created anambiance forthe balance between myself and the people around me.

Roger's angst and separation, I concluded, were the perfect equalizers for my downtrodden outlook.

As I boarded the bus for New York City, my thoughts finalized. The informality of a city where no one knows your name was exactly what I needed. I prepared myself for insomnia and nights of meditating. Because indeed, that's why New York City existed.

There was so much going on there, you could forget about your own life and hone in on someone else's. On all the people worse off than you- suffering, dying, praying and losing at life out in the endless twisted streets, standing on corners, crouching on doorsteps.

That was Bohemia.

It wasn't specific to New York, but it was anywhere that inspired unconventional ways of thinking. A utopia that acted as an introduction for everyone else's thoughts and dreams and hopes, all swarming together into one big synonymous haven.

That was the place for the outcast, the scathed, the rebellious and the bold. For detached filmmakers and tormented musicians in search of the heart of it all. An archytype for connection, above the simple aesthetic dependency that other artists needed for fame or fourtune or a sense of belonging. It was, in a way, home. Even if I didn't live there.

--

When my cab pulled up in front of Roger's apartment, he was sitting on the steps outside, in the snow, wearing only ripped jeans, his combat boots, and a thin sweatshirt. He also wore gloves with the tips of the fingers cut off, and he was trying desperately to hold a cigarette, but his blue, frostbitten fingers were too numb for any grip. He was much skinnier and paler than the last time I'd seen him, and he'd gotten a buzz cut. Tiny snowflakes collected in what little bleach-blond hair remained on his head. The tips of his ears were a bright, frozen red.

I would've mistaken him for a homeless boy if I didn't know he lived here and I didn't instantly recognize his sullen, slouching pose.

Taking in his thinning figure, a tacit sense of worry immediatley nagged at the back of my mind, but I brushed it away.

That would end up being one of the biggest mistakes I'd ever make.

I stepped out of the cab slowly, squinting through the falling snow and regaining my footing on the icy curb.

"Hey stranger." I said quietly, standing exhaustedly at the door of the taxi.

Roger's freezing fingers dropped the cigarette into the snow and he cocked his head slowly to look up at me.

Gradually,the corners of his mouth turned up and he gave me the saddest happy smile I had ever seen.

He rose to his feet, and I found myself in tears before he could even embrace me.

He didn't know why I was crying, and the funny thing was- I didn't either.

But it felt okay to cry here. To let out all the anger and rejection and revenge onto the shoulder of my friend.

We hugged on the curb for a long time. I eventually collected myself and let go, and Roger stepped back.

I averted my eyes and wiped them with my glove, turning to grab my camera bag from the snow. Roger took hold of my suitcase, trying ineffectively to carry it with his frozen hands. He shook the snow from his head and gestured inside.

"Come on." He rasped. "I think we've both got a lot to talk about..."