She knocked on his door and, without waiting for an answer, barged in. James sat hunched over his desk. Over the pounding of the rain outside she heard the scratching of his pen. She threw herself onto his bed, leaning her head back against his pillows. James’ room always smelled of cologne and sweat. But not salty sweat. It was a sweet, musky sweat. His room looked mismatched as the quilt on his bed was bright yellow and the drapes on his window were poison green.  Outside, the old oak tree which they had been sitting on all those years ago when he had given her that muddy tulip was bashing its branches against the window, caught up in a mid-winter storm. James’ room was warm, but not too warm. It was perfect. She took a deep breath, taking in the musky smell and the mismatched decor and all the things that made James’ room so unique. She sat up and pushed back a strand of pink hair from her cheek.
“What’re ya’ doin’ there, Jamesy?” She asked cheerily
He turned around to look at her and grinned before turning back to his paper. “Your hair’s still magenta. Why did you dye it anyway?”
She cocked her head. “Do I need a reason? Besides, you’re dodging my question. What are you writing?”
James laid down his pen and folded up his paper. He walked towards his closet and shoved it onto the top shelf. “Nothing.”
Samantha laughed and shook her head. “Not a good hiding place, James. Really obvious.”
“Eh, you’re too short anyway.” He stuck his tongue out at her and flung himself onto the bed, next to Sam.
“Oh, burn!” she exclaimed
He began to laugh.  It was a deep laugh. A manly laugh. It was melodic yet undoubtedly masculine laugh. It swirled around her, engulfing her, sucking her in. She was drowning in his laughter. It was blinding her. The scene in front of her eyes began to fade. She was sinking, deeper and deeper.
“What was it you wanted to say, dear?” Mr. Lewis cradled his teary-eyed wife’s shoulders in his arms. Samantha was sitting in their living room, her hands in her lap. Staring at the ground, she opened her mouth to speak, but the words didn’t come. She felt so uncomfortable in a room where she had sat so many times before. It all just seemed so foreign now that James was gone. Mr. Lewis sensed her discomfort.
“It’s hard on all of, dear. It’s no one’s fault.”
Samantha felt even worse. She wanted to tell them, but she just couldn’t.
“Would you like to go up to James’ room, Sam?” Mr. Lewis asked, lifting his wife’s body off his chest and propping her up on the sofa. “I’ll be right back, Margaret.”
Mrs. Lewis nodded and clenched the Kleenex in her hand tightly. Samantha nodded and stood up.
“Sure. Yeah, that’d be nice.”

                                                                       ***
The musky smell had faded from the room. The old oak tree outside seemed like just another oak tree. The yellow bedspread and poison green curtains just seemed silly. James’ father had left to give her some privacy, but she didn’t know why she was even standing there, in the room she had once found so unique. It felt dull. Stupid, really. She hated that room now. She skimmed the room briefly. When she spotted the closet, she thought of the paper James had hidden from her that cold winter’s day. She dragged the chair from his desk up to it and flung open the door. She felt around the top shelf until her hand touched something smooth. She slid it towards herself, grabbed it and jumped off the chair before sitting down on the edge of the bed. She unfolded the paper. It was a letter. Addressed to her.

Dear Sammy,
Obviously, since you’re reading this, you’ve been rummaging through my room. You dirty scoundrel. How typical of you. I bet you used the chair [Wow, do I have a sixth sense or are you just predictable? I wonder] I wrote this letter because there’s something I need to tell you. And, seeing how I’m such a wimp, I’m completely incapable of actually expressing my feelings in person [or handing you this letter in person, for that matter] we’ve known each other since god knows when and we’ve been through everything together. And lately I’ve felt like you’re so much more than just my friend. I know it all sounds really corny and cheesy, but it’s not going to get any better. Then again, I know you’re a sucker for soppy hallmark-cardy lines. I feel like you’re my soul mate. I feel like, no matter what you do, I’ll always be able to forgive you. I love you, Sam, or, at least I think I do. If you feel the same, pass me a note in class or at home. Wherever. It’s your choice. Just save us both the embarrassment: don’t start reciting this letter in the middle of the street. If you don’t feel the same, I just hope you don’t think I’m a complete loser for writing this letter. Oh, and, by the way, the moment you found this letter you were automatically sworn to secrecy: you tell no one about my choice of words. Agreed?
Yours truly,
James

Samantha’s jaw had dropped. He had felt the same? They could’ve been together. But now he was dead and it was all her fault. She felt worse than she had ever felt before, but just then she remembered what was written in the letter. ‘No matter what you do, I’ll always be able to forgive” A weight had been lifted from her chest. She felt light. She felt wonderful. And then she did something she never thought she’d be able to do again: she smiled.
                                                                       ***
Ten people were queued up as if waiting in line at a bank.  They filed past James open grave, each one throwing a single rose into it as they passed by. Samantha was one of them. But instead of a rose she held a small slip of paper in her hand. When she was next in line, she read what she had written on it once more.
‘Thank you for forgiving me. I love you’
She scrunched it up and shuffled to his grave. His coffin was bright white with a large golden cross on the lid. She looked over at James’ parents. Their eyes met and they smiled weakly. Samantha took a deep breath, tilted her head back and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she held her arm out over the grave and let go of the note. It drifted down like a feather, back and forth, before settling on top of the golden cross.