One late night in my bedroom. I got up from my bed, looking out of my window, to an apartment across the street.

　　Most of the windows were always dark, but one of them stood out in its bright light behind its curtain. I would see my friend`s silhouette, doing things sometimes. I never understood what they were, shadows can only tell so much.

　　He left the country. I can`t remember when, or how, but I`m constantly reminded of him at every glance outside my home.

　　His window was dark, with no shadow, and empty.

　　Just like my mind.

　　Each time I look at that window after a long day, memories come back to me, about how we`d met in primary school. I was still new on the street, moving in with my mother and stepfather. I met another kid, and from him, is how I met my window friend, Mark.

　　I still remember how odd I found him to be. Not in the "you`re weird" way, more of an "is this really you?" kind of thing. He wasn`t one to go out often, seeing him outside was as rare as a vampire being invited into a house.

　　Whenever we hung out, it was in his apartment. We had two things that we would do, it was either playing Minecraft and Counter-Strike 1.6, or I would watch him play.

　　He had a deep interest in those two games. Sure, his Minecraft was pirated, not the real deal, but he would always say it was about "how it felt" to him. And that sounded& right?

　　I never got to know too much about him. Outside of some observations, like how horrible his apartment was. Garbage bags laid in the hallways, and there were so many objects just left around in every room. It was like a hoarder`s RV.

　　I remember seeing his bedroom once, it was the most unusable one in the whole apartment. So, to make up for it, he had a fake wall for a makeshift bedroom in the guest room.

　　Worst of all was the bathroom. It was like I went to prison. And the toilet didn`t even work properly. That horrible smell from that room still stings my nose at occasion.

　　The best room was the kitchen, which was the most shocking to me. It`s not hard to ruin a room dedicated to making messes, but it was almost spotless. But that didn`t mean it wasn`t as weird as the rest of the rooms. From what I can remember, they only had a pan with a giant black brick of food layered on it, which was so thick that it looked carved on.

　　Surprisingly, the rest of the apartment was bearable in smell. A faint sense of tobacco, and that vintage smell of leather furniture. It was oddly comforting, but maybe that was the mixture of the two smells complementing one another.

　　But that came with a hard negative, anytime I would visit, my clothes always felt sticky. It had to be the cigarettes. I probably smelled like them too, I was too familiar with the smell to tell.If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

　　I felt bad for him, it was clear they didn`t have much to their name. Looking into his life was like studying a suicidal person`s history, each day leaning more down to their cause.

　　I would remember my visits like a Saturday night cartoon.

　　Each time I went there, something bizarre was going on. To me, the first sighting was my window friend`s brother being the main breadwinner.

　　I didn`t judge, I can only understand the struggle. Their apartment alone spoke volumes, but it still left me looking with a frown. Not in a "I`m judging way", just "I`m sorry."

　　I really am sorry.

　　It`s odd in a way. You don`t think much of the moments you`re in. We were just dumb kids for the most part, so I could shrug off how unusual his living situation was, but it still leaves recognition in pattern.

　　A person smoking reminds me of him. Minecraft videos remind me of him. Horrible bathrooms remind me of him. And is that to say that all I can remember are the bad?

　　Well, no. He was just a victim in bad circumstances.

　　I didn`t know his mother all that well. Only that she visited maybe twice a year, and that she was "working" in Russia. While his brother did work in a local market, all he sold were electronics on minimum wage.

　　Sometimes the mom sent them gifts, but I can`t remember what they were. Maybe they were "love you" letters with money, like a Birthday card you frantically open out of excitement.

　　Something about that sounds somber. Getting a Birthday card, I mean. It`s almost an automatic thing, but you never really relish how often such a thing could come, or at best, at all.

　　Mark never spoke much on it. I didn`t want to assume anything.

　　It makes me think, have I been a good friend to him?

　　We didn`t talk too much about anything that wasn`t a game. When we hung out in the rare occasion of being outside, we`d be around town, not far from home.

　　Sure, I did give him gifts I found cool for his birthday, but it still felt like I wasn`t doing all that much. We hung out a lot, and it was obvious that he was having fun, so was it the moment that was good, or what came after that stayed with our thoughts?

　　There was a time where I forgot to invite him to my birthday party, but he still came by. I felt horrible, both for not inviting him, and him knowing and showing up. He didn`t seem upset, but it really made me think.

　　He gave me a gift. A lego ship base. I was in awe. I`m still a huge lego nerd, but I also knew that this was one of the very toys he had, and as far as I can remember, his best one.

　　He gave me his best toy, after I didn`t invite him.

　　I still think back to that day. The look of bewilderment in my eyes had to be studied by him, it was as if my eyes suddenly got sparkles, like from an anime. He didn`t even have a hint of regret or reconsideration while giving it to me.

　　It was his best toy, and it`s my best gift.

　　I still think about the times we were out. Away from his problems, I mean. It`s funny, you forget so much about your own problems when you`re out and having fun. He never looked unhappy, but there was that feeling to it I couldn`t shake off.

　　We were in a playground one late autumn dawn, sitting on swings, and talking again, about games.

　　It was a repeat topic, but what`s not to like?

　　I look out of my window to an empty one. What remained of a close friend, and half my youth of memories. I look back at all the things we did, said, and hadn`t.

　　I wonder if he still thinks back to us. Does he even remember me? Maybe he has a new window friend. Or maybe he`s moved on to being a silhouette in a dark one.