This one time, I saw Valencia play at a music festival somewhere in Connecticut. I was eighteen and home on winter break. There was snow everywhere. I had already been seeing Valencia quite regularly for 2+ years at this point. My friends and I got bored and decided to head to one of our cars to smoke before we headed back into the festival, which was filled with younger kids obsessed with All Time Low. On the way there, we had decided that smoking was now called “eating ice cream” and if anybody wondered or asked, that’s what we were going to do. As I walked across the parking lot with my friends, giggling heavily and looking out for cops, I heard someone calling my name. It was Max.

Max and I were never best friends or anything of the sort, but over those two years of seeing each other very regularly we had developed a good rapport and had some good conversations. He poked fun at me all the time, and that night was no exception.

We all met in the middle of the parking lot, and he asked what we were all up to. One of my friends said we were going to Cold Stone to eat some ice cream. Max asked, “Oh, the one on the other end of the parking lot?” and of course, we burst into laughter. I explained it had quite the double meaning and he laughed and said he’d see me inside later.

The last time I saw Max was a couple months ago. We talked for awhile about our lives and how crazy they can get. I took it for granted that I’d see him in another couple months, and then another, and get sporadically updated in a way that a Facebook just can’t.

It didn’t hit me that Max was gone until I remembered that night at the festival.

Rest in peace, Max. You changed so many people’s lives, including mine.