If you walk far enough for long enough, you reach the edge of the world, or of this world anyway. And at the edge of the world, there is a never-ending party. Like a dream that you're dropped into, it has no beginning or there is no memory of it beginning, which is the same thing.

Song after song is played as feet shuffle tirelessly back and forth on the dance floor. There is no joy in it anymore, no abandonment, just a habit of acknowledging the music with one step after another. These people have not yet given up the courtesies of this world. No wonder they're still hovering over the in-between. The wiser ones have moved on. They've traveled further. To places that matter. To places that have names. To places that are either here or there. To places you do not know of as you're still honouring the funny business of being human. It's the stubborn ones that remain.

They've chained life to their necks like a tradition. They like parties. They do not feel tired. Their eyes say otherwise. Their eyes stare at you, kicking you out with the deliberate blinks. Can you blame them? You're crashing the big celebration or lamentation, you can't tell the difference. But the fact remains that you do not belong here. You took a pill too many but not enough to cross over. 'I'm just looking for my friend', you practice over and over in your mind as you reach into your pocket for the hundredth time. It's still in there. The weight is getting to you.

You try to explain this to the people here, if only they'd listen. They're too busy staring at you or looking the other way. There's no in between. This is just an in between.

You wander the dimly lit hallways, trying to find a door to knock on. A door with a golden sign or any sign at all. A number plaque will do. Or just a little scratch on the wood. But all the doors look similar. All the doors look like nothing. They look unreal. You cannot imagine stepping into anything if you enter one. Your head is dizzy. Space is too dizzying a concept to comprehend.

A sharp right at the end of the hallway and suddenly stairs. You descend very slowly. You are not wearing the shoes for this. There is a pool now. The music here is trashier, louder. Water is being splashed around. Ripples of movement jolt the air. There is no stillness. No silence.

An abrupt giggling holds you by the ears as you make your way to a corner crowded by young women. One of them lifts her arm to brush her hair aside and then you see him. Through the loops of her limbs, your friend smirks as he reaches the punchline of his story. Laughter all around. He always was the nucleus, sitting neat and proud at the centre of the only atom in the only universe.

When the pretty little electrons wander off looking for a better match, you walk to him. You practice nonchalance in your head. His steady gaze soils your plan to smile and wave. 

"Come back," you tell him, somewhere between a directive and a plea. "It's not too late. If you're not happy this time around, we'll always have this place." You're willing to bargain. The wait is getting to you. You want to read the note back to him. Word for word. Ask him what he meant when he said there was nothing keeping him alive but the obstinate beating of his heart.

He looks at you, with a mocking contentment. His lips part like the seas to let the boat of his rejection sail through and this is when you know you will leave this place alone. Maybe there is a world where he chooses life over the bullet. This is not that world. You will wake up in your own bed come morning, tired and bruised but healed. You will read the note he left you one last time, tear it up and let the mouth of the window swallow it up. You will sweep his name under the carpet of your tongue. And you will begin to forget. The syllables will shed their clothes and dive into the waters of your memory, sinking and sinking until the surface is a calm reflection of the blue sky.

You do not hear what he has to say. You smile. When he extends his hand, you take it. You sway to the sound of the strings. You never liked dancing. "I tried," you whisper. He nods to tell you he knows. The lady on the record sings of forgiveness and you listen. The lights in the room show you the colour of endings and you watch. You are the molecules that make you. You think of the walk back home and shiver. You are stardust. You spin in his orbit for the last time. You are smoke and you are already disappearing.