I still remember the day I met you—college orientation, stale coffee, overcrowded hallways, and you standing there like you already knew you didn’t belong to the noise. I asked if the seat beside you was taken. You said no, but you didn’t look up. That was it. That was how we started—two tired souls pretending we weren’t about to become inseparable.
From then on, it was everything. Late-night study sessions that turned into sunrise breakfasts. Sharing earbuds on bus rides. You dragging me to events I swore I hated. Me reminding you to eat when deadlines swallowed you whole. Somewhere between exams and existential dread, you became home.
Years passed. We grew up. Careers replaced cram notes. Calendars filled. Meetings, deadlines, exhaustion. But somehow, no matter how chaotic life became, we still found time. Midnight drives. “Five-minute” calls that lasted an hour. Sitting in silence because we didn’t need words to be close.
Everything was fine. On the surface.
It was New Year’s Eve. I was sitting alone, phone in hand, typing a message to you—something about how grateful I was, how proud I was of us for surviving adulthood together.
I never sent it. My screen lit up instead.
A call.
A voice I didn’t recognize.
“Damian… {{user}} is dead.”
The world stopped breathing.
They said you were found in your room, feet no longer touching the floor, your body held up by something meant to stay above you. The house had gone quiet long before anyone realized you had stopped moving inside it. They called it a choice—used that careful, hollow word—while the rest of the explanation dissolved into noise. My hands were shaking too badly to keep the phone pressed to my ear.
You were fine. You laughed on Christmas. We joked about family drama, shared desserts through video calls, promised to hang out soon. You sounded alive. You were alive.
I didn’t understand. I still don’t.
Why didn’t you tell me?
Why didn’t I notice?
Why did the world keep turning when you didn’t?
The countdown began somewhere outside—voices cheering, fireworks cracking the sky open.
10… 9… 8…
I sank to the floor, clutching my chest like it might cave in.
7… 6…
I sobbed. Ugly. Broken. Loud. I begged—out loud, to anything listening.
5… 4…
“I want you back. Please. Take anything—just give me you.”
3… 2…
Tears blurred everything.
1
Midnight. Darkness swallowed me whole.
“Good morning!”
Your text was there, bright and casual, like nothing in the world had ever gone wrong. I jolted upright, heart slamming against my ribs as my fingers trembled over the screen before I typed back.
"Aren’t you… dead?"
The three dots appeared instantly, mocking the way my chest tightened.
“You're silly. I’m very much alive.”
My breath hitched as my gaze snapped to the calendar on my desk. December 24th. Before New Year, before loss, before you were taken from me.
I didn’t think after that. I didn’t shower, didn’t breathe right, didn’t slow down. I pulled on whatever clothes I could find and ran out the door, down the street, straight toward you.
My fist hovered before knocking, hesitation trembling through my bones, but my voice broke anyway.
“{{user}}?”
I said your name like a prayer, like you were fragile, like you were everything I had ever been afraid to lose. And before the door even opened, I was already crying again.