There's a photo of him on a brick wall, somewhere past midnight, head tipped back, looking up at the stars like he was waiting for one of them to say his name. I took it. I didn't know it would become one of the last ways I get to keep him here.
Ethan was the purest heart of my generation. A true vampire — loved the dark, loved the goth of it all, watched Twilight start to finish on a plane to Texas and then again on the way back, made creepy faces at you just to steal a laugh. He'd get in the car, absolutely mog you, then pretend to shank you to death while quoting American Psycho. “If you're so hungry, why don't you get a job?” Fake stab. Every day. An absolute goofball.
And he was good. That's the part that breaks me. He'd been through an absolute lot — more than I'll put on this page — and he had every right to come out of it angry. Bitter. Selfish. To go down a bad path and call it fair. He didn't. He was the one who'd answer at 3am. Who'd hold lighting equipment in the cold while I chased a shot. Who'd call you every single day to make sure you made it to the gym, made sure you ate, made sure your dreams still had someone standing behind them. He shredded on the electric guitar, practiced every day, taught me a few chords, loved John Mayer and a whole world of alternative rock. He had a deep, holy appreciation for music. For people. For showing up.
A true vampire dies from too much sunlight. Ethan got locked out of his place, late on rent, and stayed in his car a little too long. He was there for everyone who struggled. He just couldn't ask for help himself — not when he needed it, and not before. He was surrounded by love and wouldn't let himself reach for it.
I know that guard. I built the same one. Hurt by people we loved, so we made the walls too high to let the right ones in. When Ethan got close, I pushed him away. We didn't leave things perfect. That's the weight I carry now — that someone who built so much with me, traveled so many states with me, is gone, and the last chapter of us wasn't our best.
So here's what he taught me, the long way around. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. Heaven and hell aren't waiting somewhere after — they're here. In the car at midnight. In the gym at 6am. In everyone you meet, everyone you talk to. The trick is letting the light in before the dark gets the last word.
Now I call people. Two, three a week, then a couple times a day — walking, eating, running errands. I talk about my problems, not just theirs, which I never used to do. Same blind spot Ethan had. I want the people I love to know — not assume, know — that when they really need someone, they have me. And I'm finally letting them be that for me too. Life is painful. There's hell on earth. There's heaven too, everywhere, within us and around us. Take the good with the bad. This too shall pass.
I made a monochrome print of that photo of Ethan on the wall, looking up. It lives in the Fine Art collection now — hand-shot, hand-printed on acrylic, the kind of thing built to outlive the night. If it finds a wall in your home, he gets to keep watching the stars a little longer. That's enough for me.
Call someone tonight. Tell them you'd show up.