I sat on the couch, surrounded by blankets and stared out of the frost covered window. I tried to make sense of the last few hours, still being able to hear my own screams in my head from the night before. None of it felt real. I didn’t feel like myself. It was like an out of body experience. I was there, but I couldn’t really feel my hands or my legs. My husband watched me stare lifelessly, but he knew to say nothing. There was nothing he could say, nothing I could say. So we just sat. I tried to go over the details of what I knew. It wasn’t much, but I tried to find something to prove that the worst hadn’t happened.

Where did it start? What were we even doing last night? I thought back. We had gone out to the bar. We came home late and had been drinking for a while. My husband was being belligerent and he went to bed without me. I sat down on the couch to try and stop the room from spinning and to charge my phone. It had died while we were out and I hadn’t had it on in hours. As the screen illuminated, I became bombarded with alerts. Missed calls. Missed messages. Voicemails. How long had I been out?

The messages and voicemails were from Dad. They said to call him as soon as I got the message. I looked at the clock and it was past 3am. It could wait until morning, I didn’t want to bother him so late and I definitely didn’t want to call him drunk. I laid down and, as my phone charged, I opened up the trusted social media app. What had been recorded in time on the internet while I was away from my trusted phone.

I scrolled through and found a post. Who was this person? The name seemed familiar. Friend of a friend. Never met her, but seen her in his posts.

“Can’t believe it.” she wrote. “Crying.” “So sad.” “Blood everywhere.” “Miss you already.”

I was confused. What did this all mean? Sad for what? What had happened? It was late and I was confused. Then I remembered that Dad had called. I was immediately sober. He had said it was urgent. How had I missed that? I picked my phone up again and dialed his number. I couldn’t bring myself to press send. Instead, I stared at the numbers on my phone. “It can’t be true.” I thought. “There’s no way.”

“Make the call.” I urged myself. “No. I can’t”

What happened to him? I wrote in a text. I knew it to be true enough that that was all the context he needed. I knew that’s why he had called.

I received the text back. I stared at it. Tears filled my eyes and time stopped completely still.

“He’s dead.”

I set down my phone and sobbed. I shook and I cried and I laid on the floor and cried some more. The phone rang. I answered it.

“What happened?” I asked. It didn’t make any sense.

Words bounced around after that, but I hardly heard anything.

Suicide. Gun. House. Note. Gone. Dead.

All these words hung in the air as time stood still.

“I just talked to him.” I said.

“When?” My dad asked. I heard the surprise in his voice. The subtle plea of hope in the question. He thought I had meant recently, I knew it.

“Monday. We talked about him planning a visit.” I didn’t say it matter of factly, but more questionly. It hadn’t made sense. He was supposed to come visit. He had said that he had missed me. I missed him, too. He was going to come and visit.

“I have to go.” Dad said. He was with them now. He would call later, but he had to go.

I screamed and screamed and cried more tears than I ever knew I could. I ran to my husband. Words came running out of my mouth faster than I could make sentences as I shook him awake. He was confused and that made me mad. I was mad that I had to explain myself. Mad that I had to say the words out loud. Saying it made it more real. I screamed some more. I laid in his arms and sobbed.

Then the realization hit. I had to call my mother. How was I going to call and tell her? I couldn’t form the words. I had to do it. I didn’t want to, but she had to know. He may not have truly been family, but he was close. As close as it could be.

The phone rang for what seemed like forever. I tried to gather myself with each ring anticipating the sound of her voice. As she answered, the realization that I would have to use the same words I had heard Dad utter all came to me at once.

Gone. I kept saying it over and over. “He’s gone.” I told her. She didn’t understand. She started to cry, but she didn’t understand.

A part of me became angry. Couldn’t she understand without me having to say it?

“He’s dead!” I screamed into the phone. Why was I screaming? My voice echoed in my ears and my mother’s screaming answered my echoes. I’ll never get the sound of my mother’s screams out of my head.

Gone. Dead. Suicide. He’s gone. He’s gone. I don’t know what happened, he’s gone. I uttered the words over and over, but it wouldn’t make sense.

Maybe it wasn’t true. I mean, I had just talked to him. I picked up my phone and went to social media again. More people now. More validation.

“Gone too young.” People were saying.

“RIP” they were writing.

Empty. They were empty words to me. My body was exhausted. My mind confused. The sun came up and my body ached from lack of sleep ,the sounds of my mother’s cries still present in my brain. The last few hours zooming past, trying to make sense of it all. The only comfort my husband could bring was the obvious. He wrapped me in blankets and propped me with pillows. He stared at the sudden emptiness behind my eyes.

My grief and sadness paired with guilt as I stared at him, trying to make himself useful in my time of need. I wished so badly that I could think of something that he could do to make me feel even a little better, but I couldn’t and I felt badly for that. I wanted to tell him that just being there was enough, but I couldn’t find the words.

As I sat and stared the tears began to stop. I had been crying for hours but, as they stopped, I felt even more guilt. Why had I stopped crying? I hadn’t stopped being sad. Unnecessary and unexplained guilt began creeping up everywhere.

I started realizing all the people I needed to tell. I didn’t want his family or mine to have to do it all on their own. It was my responsibility, too. He was mine, too. Our friends needed to know. But did they? I didn’t want to tell them. Why must I tell them? Thoughts began rushing through my mind. Was I trying to share my sadness? Unload my sadness onto others? Was I being selfish in not wanting to grieve alone? More guilt and then more guilt for feeling guilty. I cried again. This was the hardest thing I’d ever had to do. Hours went by and it became harder still.

People came over to make sure I wasn’t alone. They brought things, food and drinks. I stared out the window as they made pleasantries. I smiled weakly to be polite. They were trying to help, but it didn’t. I don’t know what I thought staring out the window would accomplish, but I continued to. I didn’t eat or sleep or close my eyes, I just stared at the world going by behind the frosted glass.

None of it made any sense.

I stayed that way for a few days before I decided to put clothes on and go outside. I took my dogs with me so I didn’t have to be alone. It was late in the day and winter had come, so the days were short. As I walked along the sidewalk in the brisk air, I looked into the sky. Behind my apartment danced the most beautiful sky I had ever seen. Purple and pink ribbons danced behind blue-grey clouds and it all burst into yellow and orange rays.

Some part of me felt that he had put it there just for me. My first day back into the world, my first day I had gotten the desire to move on, and there was my present for doing so. It was small, but it was important. It was beautiful and understated. All of these things were just like him in every way. He was quiet but valued.

I began noticing the signs in the little things. The reasons to move on. Grief became a constant, dull reminder in the back of my head, but I made the choice early on not to let it rule me, but instead fuel my decisions. Sometimes I noticed that it had been a few days since I had thought about him and the guilt would creep back up again. People try to explain how grief feels after loss but they fail to mention the guilt you’ll feel along with that sadness. Life would be different and, at times, dark. I had to understand that sometimes it’s just too much for some to handle. Some of us weren’t made to struggle through everything that life brings. It’s not fair, but it’s life. For those of us still here, we continue on.

His name was Jake. He was family in every sense of the word except for the fact that he wasn't actually family. We lived together for a year along with our siblings and we became so close so fast. I often feel that I was robbed of a lifetime of friendship with someone as truly special as he was. He was one of those people that was a whole lot of something that you can't quite put your finger on, but you know you need it. He made you feel special without uttering a word and he put everyone else's needs before his own. All of these qualities make for such an amazing person, but for Jake, I suppose it was just too much to carry in this world.

It took me a long time to figure out that I'll probably never really know why. Suicide leaves so many unanswered questions and you end up going through a whirlwind of emotions. Sadness, anger, self-doubt, sadness a few more times. What you're often left clinging onto are the memories that you shared. I'd be lying if I said they were enough, but they're something.