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It was harder as the days went on, Nate thought. He hadn't been able to write to Anthony at all for the past three days, as the stoic mood of the two houses carried on. The last time the air had been so tense, so sober was when Anthony's grandpa had passed away.

It had always been Anthony, his mother, and his grandfather, and the three of them had found peace in their quaint little house right next to Nate's, and they couldn't have been happier.

For Nate, it had always just been three people too. Him, his mother, and his father. When Anthony and his family had moved in next door, in the eighth grade, everything changed. It wasn't just "the three of us" anymore, not for Nate, or for Anthony.  

The six of them had found home in each other, and their two little houses had become one. 

Nate and Anthony's mothers had become fast friends, and Nate's father and Anthony's grandfather had quickly bonded over their hobby of whittling.

For Nate, Anthony's grandfather, Francesco, had become the grandfather figure he'd never had the chance to have. So when, Francesco had passed away when Nate and Anthony had entered the tenth grade, the air couldn't have even been cut with a knife. 

That was the first time both Anthony and Nate had experienced grief. The two little houses, situated in a beautiful little town, went dark. Things seemed like they would never be okay again. 

Both homes had lost someone important to them, and for Nate and Anthony, who had just started dating in secret, Francesco being the only person they'd told (and he'd fully supported them, glad that they'd found solace in each other), their relationship took a turn. 

It was a hard year for everyone. The void Francesco had left would never be filled. The memories brought Nate shivers as he sat, holed up in his room, looking out the window. 

That was the last time the two houses had been so so sad, and now, because of Anthony, things were so much worse. Everything had gone dark once more.

Nate sniffled, hastily wiping his face of his tears, the slick wetness of them dotting his hands. He glanced at his window, perched above his little corner where him and Anthony had always sat in. It was their little place ― Anthony mostly used it for reading, saying that he didn't have the perfect place to read in his house, but him and Nate both knew that the little excuse was just to spend more time with the latter. Nate had never really had a problem with it. 

They'd kissed, and hugged, and talked, and laughed, and then kissed some more, in that corner way too many times for Nate to recount everything. The window above it had gone dark as well, thunder and rain painting the sky a bleak grey. The lightning crackled, whipping against the clouds, as Nate sat, snuggled in his sheets, desperately wishing that Anthony was here next to him.

Rainy days were always fun with Anthony. Nate chuckled a little, his throat constricted. He sniffled, wiping his nose. The sound of his door opening startled him. Nate flinched and turned to his door, watching as the figure of Anthony's mother loomed over him.

She waved. Nate waved back.

Both their eyes were bloodshot. 

Cadenza, who was holding a small black object in her hand, took a seat next to Nate. "I just wanted to give this to you," she started. Cadenza's voice was raspy. Hoarse from all the crying. She had no one now. Her little family had fallen apart. She handed Nate the item in her hand ― an MP3 player.

"I-I found it in the attic, while I was cleaning. I think it," she coughed. Nate tilted his head, not surprised at all that Cadenza had been cleaning. The middle-aged woman had done the same when Francesco had passed. She'd cleaned her house, cleaned Nate's, and had then proceeded to clean her house once more. 

Nate and Anthony had spent that week hidden away in the park ― desperate to get away from the house. "Fell from a box," she continued, "But the attic is dusty, so when I clean it out, I'll get you the box."

Nate just nodded solemnly, taking the MP3 player in his hand, his fingers running over the dials. "Thanks Cadenza." Nate's voice was hoarse too.

She nodded as well, trying for a smile which didn't come. "There's a bit of tape on the back, i-it says to my stars and my moon," she looked at him fondly. "I suppose it's from Anthony."

The name made both their hearts twinge. Nate nodded again, still quiet. His face was contorted in pain.

Cadenza stood up, patted Nate's head and turned around. Her eyes couldn't help but stray to the wall where photos of Nate and Anthony covered the pastel blue paint. Her lips upturned into a strained, but feeble smile. Cadenza walked out of the room, her eyes already glazed over with tears.

Nate was alone once more. He ran his fingers over the dials again, and quick as lightning, he had turned around, and was rummaging through his bedside table for his headphones. Nate flipped the MP3 player around, and sure enough, there, written on a piece of tape in Anthony's neat, narrow handwriting, were six cramped words.

To my stars and my moon. 

Nate held the MP3 player close to his chest, his body wracking with sobs. Anthony had written it for him. His lip trembled as he pushed the headphone cord in. He hit play, desperately willing his eyes not to water as a soft melody played through his ears.

Anthony had always been fond of music.

As the sound picked up pace, Nate's eyes watered more and more.

Anthony had composed this. For him.

Nate could almost see Anthony's fingers gliding across the piano, hitting keys. The melody had relaxed now, and though there were no words, the music spoke volumes to Nate. He fiddled around with the MP3 player, repeated the song again.

Nate let his head rest against his headboard, the room silent as he listened. He turned swiftly, opening his bedside table's drawers once more. A notebook and a pen lay inside. On top of the notebook was the first letter. He didn't dare to look at it.

Nate grabbed the notebook, slamming the drawer shut. He quickly uncapped his pen, his hands trembling, and ripped a sheet from the book. The music had picked up pace once more. Nate started to write.

Dear Anthony,

His handwriting was wobbly. Shaking. Not clear at all. 

I love you.

Nate loved Anthony so so much.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

Nate loved Anthony to the farthest star and back. The song slowed down again, the notes becoming quieter, and quieter, until the song came to a stop. Nate hit the replay button again. He pressed his pen to the paper again, his hands still quivering.

I've been holed up in my room for the past three days. Sorry I didn't write, Anthony. I couldn't bring myself too. But anyway, your mom came into my room today, with this MP3 player. She's doing, well I don't want to sugarcoat it. She's not doing well at all. She's been cleaning and cleaning and cleaning. It's horrible. Her eyes are bloodshot, and so are mine.

Nate rubbed at his aching eyes. He hadn't had a goodnight's sleep in forever, it seemed.

Your mom said she found the MP3 player up in the attic. I'm listening to the song on it as I write. I love it, Anthony. It's so you, and I love that. I love you. I love you. I love you. You're the best Anthony. 

Anthony really was the best. There was no doubt about it in Nate's mind. 

I don't know when you had the time to write this, since we're practically joint at the hip but I love it. I love you, Anthony. I love you so so much. 

Nate loved Anthony so so much. He loved Anthony so fucking much.

I'm going to transfer the song to my phone. I wouldn't be able to li

Nate gritted his teeth, scratching out his words, almost tearing the paper as he did.

I don't know what I would do if I lost the song. The MP3 player is sort of old, and I'm going to transfer it to my phone right now.

Nate couldn't lose the song. He couldn't. He felt like he was forgetting Anthony, and he didn't want to forget Anthony. He never wanted to forget Anthony. Forgetting Anthony would be forgetting the world.

I'm going to listen to the song a lot. I love you, Anthony. I love you. I love you. I love you, and I know writing it a million times isn't going to do anything, but I love you. And I love this song. You're the best, Anthony. Thank you, thank you, thank you. I love you.

Nate's face was contorted with pain ― his nose was scrunched up, eyes squeezed, lips trembling. He wiped at his eyes.

I wish I could write something that beautiful, Anthony. I wish I could give you something so marvelous, and write, "To my sun and my sky". I wish I could do that, Anthony. But it's too late. I'm sorry I was never able to give you anything so wonderful. I miss you.

The music slowed down once more, the last note of the song bringing tears to Nate's eyes. He pressed the replay button, and pressed his pen down to the paper once more.

I feel like I can see your hands gliding across the piano, your nimble fingers hitting the keys. I can see you sitting on the seat, your posture perfect, nodding your head along to the music. I feel like I can see you, now too, Anthony. Sitting in the corner of my room, flipping through a book. I feel like I can see, that's all. I can't really see you. And that hurts, Anthony.

To Nate, Anthony was a ghost. The hazy figure of the boy, Nate could see, sitting on the piano in the next house, or sitting here, next to him. But he couldn't see Anthony at all. 

I'm just imagining it, I know that. But I feel like I can see you. I'm lying to myself, thinking I can see you. I can't, and I know that, but isn't lying, deluding myself better? I don't know Anthony. I miss you. The world seems empty without you. I miss you.

Nate couldn't write anymore. The soft melody had picked up pace once more, and Nate could see Anthony's hands moving faster and faster, hitting the keys of the piano gracefully. He wiped at his eyes, sniffling and wiping his hands on his pants. And  just like the last time, Nate moved the paper a little, still desperately wishing that Anthony were here next to him and wrote:

With love, Nate.