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I’m so tired it seeps through my bones and into my best friend’s, transferred through our clasped hands. The digital clock reads a neon-green 5:00 AM, so bright it makes an imprint in my sight every time I blink. The bed springs are digging into the small of my back as we look up at the Glo-In-The-Dark stars on the ceiling, left over from 9-year-old me’s intense outer space infatuation. Dried tear tracks line my best friend’s cheeks, salt tracing down and staining the pillowcase. I don’t mind. I love him more than I used to love outer space.