Back in fifth grade, I had a best friend. We hung out, debated deep things, and we did some crazy shit. He was considered a criminal; I was just someone in a bad company. One day, he didn't come to school anymore.
I tried calling at his house, but his father hung up on me. I went over there to spot him on the balcony, as I thought he was grounded. Nothing. I rang the bell, and nobody answered. He was gone.
Then I found out they took him to juvenile detention—a prison for teenagers. The next time I met him was in a couple of months. In a teenager's life, that's the same as years.
He tricked me out of some money and ran away. He became a professional criminal—a crook.
The friendship was lost, and I only met him occasionally now and then. The last time I saw him, he was a drug addict and didn't even recall me.
I learned not to get too attached to friends.