The Day the World Crashed

I woke up to my world crashing down that day.

I thought about how I wouldn’t go to your funeral. How hopeless I was about being able to reach your parents. To reach you.

I felt angry towards our friends. They acted as if it was being some kind of “great friend” by staying silent when they got those same messages. When they read those messages and still laughed the same day. They went to class knowing you weren’t there.

They went to class not knowing if you had taken your last breath, or your last step out your doorway. As if, in some way, they were respecting your choice to die at the age of thirteen. To leave your family. Me. Them.

I watched them laugh that day.

I begged the counselor to tell me if you were okay or not, or if they could reach your parents’ number, or yours, to see if you didn’t go through with it.

I watched my mom say you were crazy for even sending that message. Somehow, that gave me comfort that you might be alive. That you could be in a psych ward with bandages on your wrists, high on a pill dosage, or asleep in a short coma.

I could only watch that. I felt helpless.

And I hate you for that.