His name was Alex. About six feet tall, with long brown hair and green eyes that sparkled when he told a joke. I was fourteen, trying to make my way through the sea of high schooler's on my first day of school. I got to class and I was looking around, disoriented, when this huge guy I had never met before ran in and gave me a hug. That was how it started. Everyday when he got to class, Alex would wrap me up in his long arms and squeeze until I couldn't breathe. He teased me, mercilessly, continuously. And I loved every second of it. I had in him something special. A friend who understood when I needed to be left alone, and when I just needed someone to hold me and tell me it was all going to be all right. He was my best friend, and I cherished every minute I spent with him. But one day, he wasn't there. I knew it was odd--he hardly ever missed school--but I figured he was just sick or something. So I texted him. "Feel better!" Smiley face. He didn't reply. Then, one of the other kids came over and said "Did you hear what happened to Alex?" And with those few words, my world was shattered. Some say he found his fathers gun, or a razor, and others say he swallowed a handful of pills. It didn't matter to me. He was gone.