I lived abroad in Canada for a year back in 2005. In my class, there was a boy named Max with beautiful blonde hair. Back then, I was a very shy boy and it was Max who taught me how to play Capture the Flag and use the secret back door of the school when I was late and the front door was locked.

Max found it always interesting how I could do quick calculations in my head. I never learned any specific way to do it, I just happened to be better at it than other kids. He would always ask me, "How are you so fast at this Tim? Just how!" But from my perspective, it was a useless skill. It wasn't something that helped you make friends if it didn't make you lose the ones you already had. So Max taught me how to make friends in a foreign country as a different-colored, shy kid.

One day Max stopped coming to school and a few days passed. I thought he was probably sick or just didn't want to come to school. He was this free, bright kid who fit better playing out in the field than doing something in the classroom. And we were told he was hit by a truck while he was riding his bicycle. I was surprised but not that worried. I had seen some of my friends before going through car accidents with a broken arm or leg recover soon.

So on the way to the hospital with my mom, I had these imaginary conversations with Max. He must be so bored in the hospital, especially knowing what he was like. So I thought I would teach him how to do quick math. And by the time he was out of the hospital, he would be almost as good as me and I would ask him this time, "How are you so fast at this Max?"

When I walked into his hospital room with a smile, I instantly knew something was wrong. He had a dull, blank expression on his face and couldn't recognize who I was. But I still talked to him about how I was getting better at Capture the Flag. We went pretty often and every time on the way, I would have some kind of imaginary conversation with Max, teaching him how to do quick math. And every time I went, he would not recognize who I was.

One day as I was walking through the hospital door, I realized I didn't have any imaginary conversations on the ride there. I suddenly felt such anger at myself. It felt as if I had given up. There he was, fighting something that I didn't know with his blank face and I already accepted it. But what made me cry most wasn't the fact that I had lost hope. A small part of me, an uncomfortable yet definite part of me, found peace. Every time I had these conversations with him, I had hope, and with that hope, I felt fear that Max would not know who I am when I walked into his hospital room. The acceptance that he would never even get close to doing quick math again took my hope and my fear. And with this fear stripped out of me, a small, selfish part of me found relief.

I stopped visiting him after that day. I just could not stand myself feeling the absence of hope that he would ever get better. I hope I didn’t. After all, it wasn't just a boy who went through a terrible accident, but it was also a mom who had to live through it together. Maybe I was too young to think of all these things, but sometimes I just wish I was more kind as a kid than I was smart.

I miss you, Max.