{[Jane]}

Being a has-been friend of a rockstar isn't all jazzed up as it's thought to be.

Believe me.

Matt and I have known each other since middle school. We just lived a couple of blocks apart and hung out a lot because our parents were close.

He was that awkward kid you thought would never get a girlfriend. The guy with the braces and dreadlocks. The weirdo with that awkward smile that came from a mixed family that no one ever wanted to be a part of.

I knew Matt's pain.

My dad was Native-American and my mom American. They called us mixed breeds and told us we didn't deserve to live among them like we were some kind of alien species.

Well, that all changed after senior year when we decided to go to college. I attended NYU while Matt stayed in Chicago. We lost contact after he joined some band with Shaun, Lican and some other guy.

He never had time for me anymore.

I visited again in the fall, but everything — except the weather — felt like it was withering and crumbling away, getting ready for the icy winter to come.

Matt had shaved half his hair, got more tattoos, but somehow was the same person. My Matt. Always shy and thought less than nothing of himself. He still suffered from chronic depression I feared would worsen now that his band was about to release their debut album.

I cared about him. Like a sister would for her brother. But somehow, lately, it felt different.

A few weeks after I returned to Chicago I noticed him at the Pick Me Up Cafe. It was late one cool evening.

I wore my hoodie and sweatpants, my hands drawn back into my sleeves to keep my hands warm as I awaited my order.

My laptop's bubbles danced across the screen — my mind frozen just like the weather outside, unable to think up one decent idea for my story.

I typed the first line, then stopped, erased it and started all over again. I debated whether to eat my dinner, pack up and head on home.

I closed the cover of my laptop, leaning my chin onto my hands as I stared out into the street at nothing in particular, just letting my thoughts run rampart. Where was he, what was he doing — had he thought of me. Had he missed me when he walked past the places we used to hang out? Why had he never called me? Why did his number change?

With countless questions rambling through my brain, a figure came into focus just outside the window, striding on the sidewalk.

His attire gave him away the instant I saw him. His dark hoodie with beanie underneath. His hands dug deep into the pockets of his jeans as if to keep the world as far away as he could manage. His sneakers sloshed on the wet paving as he hurried to the cafe entrance.

The doorbell chimed as he opened it, retracting his hands from their hiding place to blow them warm when he stood in line.

He probably just darted in for a quick cup on the run. I didn't expect him to notice me. I mean, he had no reason to.

He had new friends now — a new life. People knew his name for miles away. He was almost famous, you could say.

I ducked my head and opened my laptop again, praying he wouldn't notice me. I wouldn't be able to handle it if he wanted to talk to me after all this time.

Three years that seemed like a lifetime to me.

First the calls stopped, then the texts. The letters became less and less to the point where he asked me to switch to electronic mails. The last one I received was three weeks ago. The one he told me they finally got their big break and if all went well, they'd probably go to Los Angeles to record there for a while.

I knew this was a huge thing for him. He'd been dreaming of it ever since I could remember. I was just... scared. People like us didn't handle pressure well. I was scared for his sake. Scared he'd try to do something stupid.

I opened my word processing program and typed my first sentence again.

[[We might have lost contact, but oh, how much I miss you tonight. Your gorgeous blue eyes glistening in the faint light of the moon as we walked hand in hand along the great shore of Lake Michigan. The feeling of weightlessness setting on us, taking away our suicidal feelings and giving us new hope for a new day. That was the night I nearly told you the truth, how I felt about you.]]

A warm tear made its way down my face as I looked up into his direction again. But he was gone. In an instant. Without even acknowledging me.

To say I was disappointed was the least.

I was broken.

Shattered.