i wont be sad
By rose - silver member
Submitted on July 19, 2025
Part 1
We used to laugh all the time. I wish you were here to remember that.
I stare silently out the window at the sad scrubby ground beyond. There are yellow shrubs, as well as other plants that grew stunted, not able to get enough water; flowers that were pretty until we planted them; dust that rises to waist-height and casts a haze over the white sun. It isn’t pretty, as there is nothing pretty to look at. But it feels like home.
Where I come from wasn’t pretty either. Everything about it reeked of ugly. Trash lined the streets, crunching beneath the weight of ancient, dented vehicles. It didn’t smell very nice either. A good portion of our neighborhood is disabled by stray bullets or bullets that failed to kill. The sidewalk was cracked under the heat. The dying trees were bent like witches, pointing fingers at me. In fact, everything was dying.
I like ugly now.
It's evening, or almost evening. Even the sunset here is ugly and depressed. I tilt my gaze towards the sky. The sun slides gradually, and the daytime moon hangs low in the sky like it cannot support its own weight in the muggy blue. I can’t see the stars yet. The colors deepen from yellow to red and orange and then to purple like the sky is bruised or crying with makeup on.
Maybe it’s the way the sun captures the dark heat scars on the ground, because I’m sure that I can see you. Just a speck on the horizon, never moving further away.
It was cold, too cold. A shudder passed through my entire body as I allowed the tide to lick at my toes, digging my heels deep into the sand. You were running ahead of me, laughing, spinning with your arms stretched out, the foam spray catching in your hair. It was the first time we’d traveled more than an hour, the first time we’d been on a plane, the first time (and for you, the last time) we saw the ocean.
Come on!
Your voice was full of playful innocence I hadn’t heard in a long time. At thirteen, you carried your fair share of the world on your shoulders, and had seen more than most adults will ever hope to see in their entire lives. It was a rare moment in which we allowed ourselves to relax and to be free.
I couldn’t help but smile as you led me into the sea. We went deeper and deeper, struggling through the heavy, murky water. Waves crashed too close for my comfort, but you dove right into them, and I followed. Soon, we were both treading water furiously, but we didn’t want to go back, not yet.
Not yet.
Maybe never.
I ducked underwater for a second and came up shaking the sea from my hair in salty flecks. The spray got in your eyes. You winced, your face twisting unnaturally, suntanned and shining in a way I hadn’t seen since forever ago.
Sorry! I laughed, splashing over to you.
You weren’t angry. You pushed me into a wave. I pushed you back. We wrestled for a while, fighting to stay above the surface. Soon, our breath was tearing at our lungs. The air was light, easy to breathe.
We lay on our backs like starfish, eyes closed against the sun, laughing for no apparent reason and just being happy. It felt good to be alive. You swam over to keep an eye on me in your older-sibling watchful way, making sure I didn’t drift too far. I remained oblivious to everything except my temporary perfect world. The sea was warm, comforting, like a thick fleece blanket.
Come back!
Mom’s voice was a world and a half away from the paradise we were in. A dolphin leapt out of the water not more than twenty feet away from us, its shimmering body flashing briefly in the sun, followed by five or six more of them.
Look at that!
Wasn’t it so beautiful?
I never saw the wave coming. I could hear your laughter as you dove into it, but I didn’t react fast enough. It slammed into me with brutal, impossible force, crushing me against the ocean floor. I struggled, my fingers scraping wildly against the rocky sand. Panic took over as I realized I couldn’t breathe. I frantically tried to get a breath.
The water was cold, the world grey-blue, and my last thought was that I was drowning before it all went black.
Floating, empty, a soft light.
I’ve got a pulse! I’ve got a pulse!
The man’s tears were warm and slippery against my face. Slowly, I opened my eyes, staring around in confusion. The ground beneath me was solid and dry. The paramedics pumped breath into me until I could breathe on my own again, which took a while.
You grabbed my hand and squeezed it like you were trying to break all my fingers. And then you tried to say something but the only sound you could make was a choking sob of sheer relief. You knelt there in the sand and cried. Mom was holding me, rocking me gently back and forth.
He saved your life. You should be grateful to have him as your brother.
They told me you had dragged me back to the shore, dragged me from that undercurrent and swam for all you were worth. You were panting still. I just stared at you in pure admiration while Mom held me, but also in confusion. Why were you crying?
It was the first time I remembered seeing you cry.
“Do you remember that?” you asked me softly. Your voice was always quiet ever since you got sick.
We were sitting on a bench in the park, four years later, watching kids play on the swings, talking about everything and nothing.
And I do remember, right down to the cold salty breezes against my face that made my eyes burn, and the way the ocean curves like it wants to hug the land, sparkling like a jewel beneath the white glare of the hot summer sun.
It was a long time ago, but I remember.
Your face was tilted upwards, your sharp eyes squinting against the sky. I squinted too, memorizing the curly shapes of the clouds. I wanted to remember this moment. You looked pensive, almost peaceful, like you, too, wanted to remember.
I reached for your sleeve, a thing that I always did when I got scared. When I was younger, I would sneak into your room at night just to listen to the sound of your breathing, because I was scared of the dark. I was scared that the faint creaking noise was the silhouette of the window slowly opening, just a silver reflection shifting slightly in the quiet of the night, letting all evil in. I believed that you could protect me.
For a few minutes, I fingered the hem of your sleeve, reminding myself that we were still there, in this moment. That you were still fighting the illness that threatened to consume you.
I wanted to become little again, so that you could hold me tightly against your chest, until our hearts were beating as one. You were both my mother and my father, since my parents behaved as neither. Although you were only three years older than me, you shouldered a lot of responsibility, but after you got sick, I had to take it from you.
Sometimes it was hard holding up the world.
Travis grabbed me, shoving me against the wall, forcing my face upwards until I had to stare into his eyes. He had the cruelest eyes, hatred simmering under the surface. And I had never seen such hatred as was on his face that day.
“You know something?” he spat. “I’m glad your brother’s gonna die.”
I froze. My heart must have stopped beating for a second. No.
“You didn’t know that?” He sneered at me, his upper lip twisting around his teeth. His breath was hot, sour, coming fast and hard in his lungs. His hand was around my throat. It might have been cutting off my breath except I couldn’t breathe.
No. What he was saying was a lie. I felt as limp as a wrung-out dishtowel as I slumped against the wall. I wanted to close my eyes, but I couldn’t look away.
How could he have just said that? I wanted to ask him why he was glad that anyone was going to die, but I just couldn’t find the strength. I wanted to say something. Anything. I didn’t want him to know how weak I was. My mind formed the words, but my mouth wouldn’t cooperate.
“You don’t mean that.” My voice was all choked up, a baby voice.
“Yes,” he replied, the syllable sweet and metallic on his tongue, ringing through the empty hallway. “I do. Every. Word.” He laughed, the sound harsh.
My vision blurred with tears. When he let me go, I barely noticed. I sank to the ground, furiously fighting those stinging tears away. I wasn’t going to cry.
“Travis,” I whispered, my voice echoing through the empty school. I watched him even when he was long gone, wishing that he would come back.
I wish he had never said that to me. Not just because it was so hurtful, but because it was true.
When he said that, it became real.
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Part 2
When we were little, we wanted to be part of the Secret Service after we saw a movie about it. We were good at pretending. We were always so aware that we were pretending, except we wished it could be real. We wished we were anywhere else. When we played this game, we felt like we were doing something real for the world. No longer were we two kids trapped in that awful place. We felt raw and alive.
We even “borrowed” some woman’s sunglasses, running away before she could yell for her husband, and made our cousin the president. Our cousin was happy because he got to sit on our lounge chair and drink sodas while we stood with heavy sticks, snarling at everyone – the mailman, the cat, our mother.
There was a red pickup truck in the overgrown driveway next to ours. We pretended it was our car, our black limousine, complete with a battery of firearms and ammunition in the back, sleek leather seats, and individual places to hold our cups and soggy tomato sandwiches.
Sometimes, when it was so hot out that I became too dizzy to stand up, I thought I saw the owner sitting on the back with a dead cigarette hanging out of his mouth. His eyes were squinting towards nothing, bottom lip jutting, face and hands as dark as his bedraggled beard.
We played hard so that we could escape. We gave each other fake names and pretended like everything was okay.
Andrew Williams. Leslie White.
That’s what we called ourselves. I don’t know where we came up with those, because they weren’t in the movie. I wanted to be Taylor Swift but you said no.
Do you remember when we built that treehouse so that we could spy on the neighborhood kids? The fat ones whose sweaty shirts clung to their potbellies, ice cream drying up on their chins, mouths perpetually hanging open—yes, those ones.
I used to remind you about those while you slept heavy, the stars big in the night sky, the oxygen tank blinking red. But I was usually so lost in the story you could not hear that it was only when I heard you breathing with difficulty that I filled it up.
We had a lot of fun up there, in that treehouse, with our binoculars and sunglasses. The first time, I was so scared to come down after you. You talked to me about it for half an hour, promising me over and over again that I was going to be okay, while the sun beat down on my face and the young spring aspen leaves ripped beneath the shaking hands I clenched into fists over them.
Eventually, I came down. When I fell, you ran and caught me. We landed hard, but we got up quickly. No matter how hard we fell, we always got back up, and I’m proud of you for that, for showing me how to be strong.
You drilled me on French that evening, verbs and stuff. I was worried that I wouldn’t do well on the test, but I knew you were terrified. My entire life depended on doing well on tests. It seems stupid, right? But it was true.
High school is different, you’d explained to me at the start of the school year.
I thought I understood what you meant. I blinked hard against the light of the lamp on the table. Your eyes were narrowed in concentration as you bent over my textbook, lips moving silently.
You had nearly failed your first year of high school. Things had gotten better in your sophomore year, but still. You needed me to do well. Everyone needed me to do well.
“Give me the conjugation of avoir,” you said.
Avoir sounded like a word that would describe perfectly how it felt to fly for the first time.
I rubbed my eyes, suppressing a yawn behind my hand. I didn’t want to ask you if I could go to sleep because I knew you would say no. It was like sleep didn’t exist anymore for you. It never did when there was work to be done.
I always admired that about you. I wished that I could be like you.
The correct answer fell from my tongue like sand between my fingers, everything slipping out in one blurry mess. It seemed to make sense to you, because you nodded, your eyes meeting mine for a brief moment.
You smiled slightly, just slightly. It was hard to get a real smile out of you. At least this was a start.
“You know what a French kiss is?” you asked.
I wrinkled my nose in disgust. My face turned hot as I blushed. I’d never really thought about that stuff, not yet. “No, I don’t,” I said. “I don’t really want to know.”
You blushed too at your own stupidity.
That was, I had no idea until my sophomore year. His lips were hard, sour. Hot. Sour.
“Sadie?”
“Yeah?”
“When . . . when someone kisses you. What does it feel like?”
She hesitated. “Wet,” she said after a moment. Then she laughed. “Yeah, it’s wet. Gross, huh?” She paused to give me an inquiring look. “Who?” she asked.
I blurted out a lie. She seemed convinced. Satisfied, maybe. That was rare. Sadie was never satisfied with the things I did—the things she thought were important. Clothes, hair, nails, popular girl smile. Singers. Models.
I’d never considered any of those things particularly important, even though my dream since I was little was to be a TV personality, a social media influencer, or maybe a fashion designer. I had no idea, but I’d make money off of the rich and beautiful.
Maybe I wanted that because I wasn’t rich, nor was I beautiful.
Sadie got up, flicked her hair back, caught the attention of a boy across the gymnasium, and walked off, her thin hips swinging, ponytail perfectly arranged.
I just sat there. Some kids had started up an obnoxiously loud basketball game. Other girls waved me over. Sadie sat among them but averted her eyes when I tried to catch her gaze. I didn’t care to join them. Too much had happened I was thinking about my first kiss, which was not at all what I’d expected it to be, but anyway it was a kiss, and that counted.
Maybe it didn’t count, though. I hadn’t wanted it to happen. He’d grabbed me in the hall. I was running late and he’d just grabbed me. That was all there was too it. If anyone ever asked how it had happened I would say that I’d gone to use the restroom and when I came out he was standing there like an assassin in the shadows and he’d grabbed me and he’d kissed me.
Wasn’t anything right about that.
Wasn’t warm.
I never felt any wet. Wet is vulnerable. Wet is bearable. Travis is neither of those things. I only felt pressure, pressure, sour.
Mom smiled at me when I told her. “I think you should go out with him.”
“What?” I yelped. Did she not understand that I was repelled, disgusted, nearly in tears over what had happened? It was horrifying. It was a scandal. Travis was never supposed to corner me like that. I was never have supposed to let him grab me and force my mouth against his. It was wrong, it was so wrong, and Mom thought I was happy about this?
“Your first boyfriend, hm? You’re growing up so fast,” she said. She couldn’t stop smiling. So rare. She never smiled.
I sat down on the bottom step of the staircase. I didn’t know what to say to her.
“Do you have his number?”
“Of course not.”
“Get it. He’ll be looking to give it to you.”
“It’s not like that,” I said as patiently as I could because it was nothing like that. I buried my face in my hands. Why couldn’t she understand this? Why did she think that Travis had to be my boyfriend? She sounded . . . happy about that.
I didn’t want this, any of this. He had been so fast. His hands were callused, strong, the hands of someone who got what he wanted. And I had given him what he wanted, even though it had broken me inside.
“Do you have a picture of him? I want to see a picture of him.”
“No,” I whispered. The tears were hot and wet against my face.
“Why are you crying?” she asked. She came over and sat down beside me, pulling me into a tight embrace.
I couldn’t explain why I was crying to her because explaining would mean telling her exactly what had happened. She might pull me out of school. She might go to a teacher. She might do nothing.
But worst of all, she might tell me that was how life was supposed to happen. And I knew, in my soul, that it wasn’t supposed to be like that. Kissing was supposed to be love, not force.
“Mom told me about Travis.”
“I know. Do you want me to fix your pillow?”
“It’s okay. And . . .”
“And what?”
“And nothing.”
“Sure it’s okay?”
“Really. It is.”
“Lemme fix it for you.”
“No—it’s fine, seriously. Go downstairs. Talk to Sadie or something.”
“I don’t wanna talk to Sadie. What’s going on?”
“Nothing. Go downstairs.”
I slipped into your room later that night. Reached under your pillow.
There was a note. The handwriting was curly and written with a pink pen. There were words like “love” and “forever”. The name at the bottom belonged to a girl.
I put it back under your pillow. I didn’t know what to do now. I had the feeling that I had just walked into a part of your soul that no one should ever touch. I didn’t know how to un-walk into it.
Your breathing was shallow. I lingered there for a second, trying to figure out what was wrong. You coughed suddenly, and I stepped back. What if you woke up and saw me standing there? You would guess—you always knew what kind of trouble I’d been up to. You said it was that guilty look in my eyes. What guilty look? I blinked hard.
You didn’t wake up. I could hear you breathing heavily now. Something was wrong. My eyes followed the small clear tubes that led from your nose to the oxygen tank in the corner of the room.
You coughed again, lips parted, chest heaving with effort. You sat up suddenly, your eyes flying open, a sucking gasp seemingly tearing you apart.
“I can’t—I can’t breathe.”
The oxygen tank was beeping, flashing red. My heart dropped. I had been so preoccupied with the events of the day I’d forgotten to change it.
“Hold on—I’ll fix it, wait—” My hands were shaking so badly I could hardly do it. “Hold on. Try to breathe deeply.” It was such a stupid thing to say. I felt a sob choking in my throat. I wasn’t fast enough. I couldn’t do this in time. I’d have to watch you suffocate.
“Can’t—please.”
“I’m trying. I’m trying—please God please God please God.” I managed to hook the new tank into place. My heart started beating properly again as I fastened it securely and heard you breathing again. That was when I realized I was holding your life in my hands, literally.
We came from a shady neighborhood, which made playing the Secret Service game even more fun, because sometimes we really did have to protect something.
Like the time one of the men decided he wanted my mom, who worked at the nightclub. It took all your strength to pull him off of her. I continuously slammed my book against the back of his head, which annoyed him enough to relax his grip on Mom. He lunged, like he was going to stab me, but you hit him again. He stumbled off, bruised and bleeding, but not without leaving a few curses, as well as the stench of alcohol, in the air. Mom was proud of you. I’m proud of you too. I will always remember the fierce terror in your eyes.
Like the time there was a big fight next door and the neighbor’s kids ran over, crying. That wasn’t even the worst time because no one ended up in the hospital. The six-year-old carried the baby girl, the hysterical toddler trailing behind. We were not very much older than them, but we knew exactly what to do. We got them inside quickly, shuddering at each crash or scream from next door. After a warm drink they slept, the baby snoring softly, her tiny fingers clutching the collar of my shirt.
Like the time Dad came through the back door and smashed everything to pieces, throwing her jewelry onto the ground, cheap fake necklaces lying on the cracked tiles like dead snakes.
I remember, I hid in the bathroom and cried into a hand towel, trying to block out the sound of my parents’ fury. I wanted to scream at you to come in with me so that I could lock the door. You were not afraid. You told our estranged father to get out before you gave him what he was asking for.
Mom sat there on the ground, sobbing, for hours and hours, it seemed, clutching the pearls he had given her fifteen years ago against her chest, choking (almost) on the weight of failure.
You held me on your lap for a long time until I fell asleep. I felt you shivering as the coldness of the bathroom floor seeped into you, but I was always warm, because you were there. We stayed like that for a long time, even when I was awake again, listening to each other’s breathing. It was only after a long time that I realized you were bleeding; a piece of glass from the mirror he had broken had cut your leg.
You’re bleeding.
You looked down at your injury like it was the first time that you’d noticed it, then you looked at me and laughed. We had the same sort of laughter, all at once, like a pile of dishes breaking.
It’s okay. This is nothing.
The second time Dad came back, three years later, you were fifteen and I was twelve. He came in the night and broke down the front door using a sledgehammer, then grabbed the heavy metal box where we kept all our money and swiftly cracked the lock open.
We rushed out of the room, afraid but nonetheless protective. Mom was working late, and it was just the two of us, but we were confident that we would be okay, even if we had to fight. You had prepared me for this a lot. I had dreamed about this. But that didn’t matter. We were just there, just being, our bodies moving separately from our minds. My brain was screaming at me to run but I followed you.
Like I always did.
He froze when he saw us coming. Maybe he hadn’t expected us to come out and face him.
You ran down the stairs, your eyes glinting demonically in the half-light cast by the flickering kerosene lantern in the corner. I clung to the banister. The world moved in slow-motion, your fingers wrapped so hard around the handgun that your knuckles were past white.
He raised the sledgehammer again. There was no time. No time. His mouth opened, face twisting in a snarl, then in a silent scream. The cash slipped from his fingers, sparkling crimson when he fell.
I bury my face in my hands, crying softly into my palms. It’s too much, thinking of you, of this. I don’t want to remember all the bad things you did, the things that gave you nightmares, or would make you sit on the park swings with your legs trailing in the dust, even though you were far too old for playing, and put that distant look in your eyes—before you got sick, of course.
Everything changed when you got sick.
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Part 3
One day when I was maybe twelve or thirteen, you drove me to a friend’s party, which was taking place at the local indoor adventure park. There was strawberry cake and pink and white balloons. The air smelled like sweat and candy. The adventure park was small, but it was my first time, as we’d moved only recently, and I had more fun in the first thirty minutes than I’d had in the past six months.
You sat alone on one of the benches. Your eyes carried a hollow, distant look as you watched me. Even if you were healthy, you would not have played. You were too old to play anymore.
We were in one of those pits that kids like to fall in and struggle to climb out of for some reason. It was disgusting but I didn’t mind, because I was happy and alive and wasn’t thinking about your cancer. The friend who was having the birthday playfully threw a foam block at me. I ducked and floundered, laughing.
We struggled out. Something about me must have made me look attractive because almost immediately, a group of older boys started hitting on me. I had seen bad things happen after a boy calls a girl cute and immediately told them to leave me alone.
This section of the adventure park was empty except for them, me, and my friend, Sadie, who was standing there uncertainly, her party hat crumpled and all sideways. She seemed oblivious to what was going on. Of course she was. She was from a safe neighborhood. Maybe even a rich neighborhood.
In retrospect, what business did I have being friends with her?
She was Sadie. She became my best friend. So it was good that she’d invited me to her party because she showed me how to act like a rich girl too.
Rich girls rarely understand the world.
Aw, c’mere.
I got scared when one of them took a step towards me. I ran as fast as I could until I’d reached you. Except you weren’t on the bench. I sat there with my arms wrapped around myself protectively. I couldn’t see those boys anymore and never wanted to see them again.
A few minutes later, I spotted them some distance away. I looked at them for a second too long. It was my mistake. One of them turned the slightest bit, and for one awful moment, we made eye contact, before I tore my gaze away. He looked hungry. I looked around, but my friend had disappeared, which was exactly what I needed.
As they began to close in, I saw you coming back. Your face was pale, almost grey, and you sank onto the spot next to me. You had grown thin and I could see you trembling with fatigue.
I wanted to ask where’d you been and if you were okay, but I was frightened now. Would I really be harmed right here, in the middle of a jam-packed adventure park that suddenly seemed so huge and empty?
The biggest boy stepped up, his eyes scanning us critically, like he was assessing your strength. He was tall and wiry, at least two hundred pounds, with a head full of bleached blond hair and teeth that seemed too big for his mouth. He could easily beat you in a fight.
His eyes landed on me.
Who’s this?
You stood up. Although you looked like a shadow of your former self, you still appeared somewhat menacing. There was a fierce look in your eyes.
Get away from her before this gets ugly.
He smiled, his thin red lips twisting, exposing a vast expanse of decaying yellow dentin and enamel.
What are you going to do?
With a quick, fluid motion, you moved to shield me protectively. The boy growled something that I didn’t hear. Every muscle in your body tensed, your fists clenching.
When you hit him, I’m sure he saw nothing but stars. Punch after punch landed on his nose, his jaw, his collarbone. I’d never seen you fight like you did, and even though I was afraid, I found myself admiring your quiet strength. You did not make a sound the entire time. Only when the boy was flattened out like a two-dollar sandwich and his accomplices were hiding behind the table with the birthday cake on it did you stop for breath.
Get up.
He crawled, then dragged his feet, then disappeared behind the jump house with his friends. I caught a glimpse of him when we left some time later, but he looked even more scared than I’d been. There were nasty bruises on his face. You had hurt him good.
But you’d also been hurt in ways I could not see because I didn’t have an X-ray machine. You fell onto the bench, gasping for every breath. Your lips were almost turning blue.
I sat down beside you, wiping the sweat from your forehead with my sleeve. Despite how scared I’d felt, I had to be strong.
You were so brave. I don’t know what I would have done without you but I don’t want you to ever be away from me again. Ever.
Of course I didn’t say any of that. I just wiped the sweat away and hoped you could understand. I put my arm around your neck and pressed my cheek against your shoulder. It was a thing I’d done as a toddler when I wanted you to protect me. I wanted that now.
You managed a faint smile.
Maybe you’d understood.
Sadie grabbed my hand and pulled me towards Panda Express. “Check it out! The noodle bowl is four dollars fifty and I’ve got exactly five dollars on my account!”
I managed a weak smile. She was carrying exactly six shopping bags. No wonder she had five dollars on her account.
I had one tiny shopping bag that contained exactly one lipstick and one perfume. I had twenty-four cents on my account. No more, no less. Mom had given me exactly thirty dollars to spend here, an extravagant amount just for makeup and a good time with a friend.
The food court smelled like cheap fried fast food and sugar. I didn’t want to be late for the movie, but I was hungry—I was so hungry. I stared at the Panda Express sign. We could only get one dish. One thing to share. That was fine with me. I’d just pay Sadie back later, once I saved enough money.
The line moved on. Suddenly, it was our turn. I drifted off as she commanded one noodle bowl with sweet and sour sauce. Then she turned to me. “What are you getting?”
I just stared at her. I’d told her several times that I had almost nothing left on my credit card. Had she forgotten?
She stared back for a moment before turning her attention back to the cashier, flashing her biggest smile. “That’s it.”
“That’s it?” The cashier looked at me. He was small and wiry with dark red hair and dark eyes.
“Yeah,” Sadie confirmed in a tone of contempt. Like he was stupid, not just concerned about me.
He should have been concerned, I thought. It was very unlike me to go out to the mall with a friend, or out to the mall at all. Something was obviously wrong, I just didn’t know what.
Sadie grabbed the hot noodle bowl the second it was ready and flounced over to an empty table. I plopped myself ungracefully in a chair across from her. She had one set of plastic silverware.
She popped open the top, inhaled the sweet aroma that made my mouth water, and sighed in satisfaction, closing her eyes. Then she launched into a story about the fancy restaurant her parents had taken her to last Saturday while she ate. How she couldn’t believe she was eating Panda Express right now but it was okay because her mom had obviously forgotten to put an extra hundred dollars on her account.
I just sat there while she ate. She never offered me any.
After a minute, I excused myself to the bathroom. I stood there leaning against the seat, listening to toilets flush and faucets run. I didn’t know what to think. I had thought she would give me at least a bite. Did she not see that I was hungry too? That I was human too?
I stood there for a good ten minutes until a dozen texts from her had piled up on my phone. I was so hungry.
As if it was a miracle, as I walked out of the women’s bathroom I saw something crumpled on the ground. Green, thin, papery.
A twenty-dollar bill.
My heart lurched. I sprinted over and grabbed it. A hand clamped over mine not more than a second later.
The man glared at me over his spectacles. “This is mine, thank you.”
With a sinking feeling that threatened to pull me to the ground, I realized it had just fallen out of his wallet. I wanted the bill so badly, but I knew I couldn’t have it.
“Of course,” I replied graciously, taking a step back. “I was just picking it up for you. Excuse me.”
I staggered backwards a few steps, feeling overwhelmed by how hungry and disappointed I was. Before he could say anything, or turn away, a wave of dizziness overcame me. I struggled to keep my balance.
“Are you alright?” He sounded scared.
“I’m fine,” I gasped. “Just—I need—”
The next thing I remembered, I was in a chair surrounded my people who were giving me a Coke. And a Subway sandwich, a Cold Cut Combo, ham and salami and bologna. Sadie was nowhere to be found. I was half-glad about that. I would have been inclined to share my sandwich with her if she’d been around. It was a million times better than Panda Express because she didn’t appreciate what she’d ordered, and I did.
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Part 4
You knew that you were going to die. And you were not afraid.
Why didn’t you tell me? Maybe I would have understood why you didn’t play with me anymore. It wasn’t because you were a grown-up now, or because I was your stupid little sister now, or because you had a new best friend now. It wasn’t because of any of those things.
I was twelve when they gave you your diagnosis. I still cry about that day sometimes. It feels so real. I can picture everything perfectly, as if it was yesterday. The doctor came out looking like we were characters in a bad movie and that he wished he could rewrite our story. The nurse who did your X-rays could not make eye contact. Mom looked from one figure to the next, her eyes moving in short, jerky movements, like she already knew what they were going to say. A feeling of dread settled in my chest. Whatever they said next, I knew it would be devastating.
“We’re going to need to do some scans. It doesn’t look good.”
“What?”
“Scans. Of his lungs.”
“Okay. Come on, baby, they’re going to do scans now, okay?”
“Mom, I don’t wanna, I’m fine.”
“I didn’t pay for this appointment for nothing. Do what the nurse says.”
“It’ll only take a minute. It doesn’t hurt, I promise.”
“I know. I just don’t wanna.”
“What if something’s wrong, baby? We need to know.”
“Yeah. There might be something. We need to find it, and then we’ll fix it.”
“There’s nothing.”
“Listen to what the nurse is saying.”
“There’s nothing.”
“How do you know that?”
“There’s nothing because I don’t want there to be anything.”
They had someone look at the scans immediately, which told me they’d seen something that was obviously bad. They said it bluntly, all at once, the words hitting me like a physical blow. They said that you had cancer in your lungs.
I cried, but Mom just sat there in the waiting room, blankly.
This is not happening.
When we finally drove home, you went straight to your room and stayed up there for some time. You were writing a list of things you wanted to do before you died. When Mom found out, she grabbed the paper from your hands and ripped it to pieces.
You are going to be okay.
Three times a week, she would drive you to receive treatment. We moved to a nicer part of town so that we could be closer to the hospital for you. That was the one good thing that happened but there were so, so many other bad things that I wish we could just go back in time and be looking at that red pickup truck again.
We didn’t go home immediately, though. We went to a big brick building. Mom stopped in front of it, got out, and came back in about half an hour later carrying a shopping bag.
I had cried all my tears by this point and there was nothing left to say to anybody. Your arms were around me, and your voice was calm and soft as you whispered things to me. Mom looked at us through the car window and you pulled away from me, knowing I didn’t want Mom to know that I had needed comfort.
I wasn’t supposed to need comfort – it was you who needed it. At least, that was the conclusion I had drawn in my mind.
But you looked like nothing had happened. Like maybe we were just going to school or sports practice. You even smiled when Mom got into the car carrying the shopping bag. I didn’t have the strength to ask what was in it yet.
Mom handed me the bag. I peeked inside. There was a small white box inside. I opened it and pulled the tissue paper away. Inside was a necklace.
“Like it?” she whispered.
I nodded, too young to understand at the time that this was the same necklace Dad had given you, the same model as the necklace he’d smashed on the floor that night.
I often wonder if you were trying to get a piece of him back from that necklace, if you were turning to him for comfort, if you were praying that, even though he’d mistreated us so badly, you wanted him there for us after the diagnosis, but even though you tried to call, Dad never showed up, not that day, or that evening, and I wonder if he will never come.
“Did you tell him?”
“Yeah—I told him.”
“That’s good. What did he say?”
“He just—he sorta looked at me. He didn’t say anything. I just walked away.”
“It hurts you, right?”
“What?”
“That it didn’t work out—that you don’t . . . I just . . .”
“Look, I don’t care who likes me and who doesn’t. It’s just school. It’s nothing.”
“I know. That’s not what I was trying to say.”
“Then what?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I never asked you—are you seeing someone?”
“Yes, I am, but would you mind if we don’t talk about it right now?”
I wondered for a long time how you could be seeing someone if you never left the house. Mom had to work, and I was at school until four, so of course we’d hired someone, a professionally trained nurse who could look after you while we were gone.
You hated that idea. You said you didn’t need a babysitter. I agreed with you, but Carla wasn’t a babysitter, she had actual medical training, which made her like a nurse-sitter or something. And it wasn’t a possibility for you to be left alone for eight hours every day. What if something happened to you? By the time one of us came home, it would be too late.
Carla was strict but kind. I didn’t see much of her because she always left about ten minutes after I got home. But eventually I knew you let your guard down and let her be around without frustrating her too much. The first day, she stormed out of the house without much of a goodbye. The second day, her face flushed red and she was muttering under her breath as she said goodbye. I think it took nearly a month before she’s smile and thank us. That’s when I knew you had become almost friendly.
Maybe you convinced her to leave you alone for an hour or so, maybe while she went out to get lunch or something. And when she was gone, you’d leave. The medicine was helping, and you could breathe on your own again, mostly.
I never asked you who the girl was or if she was pretty or why you saw her or if you liked her, loved her.
I just never wanted to ask you that. It was your precious secret, and I wanted you to be able to hold onto that, if nothing else, forever.
I saw her once.
I saw her cheeks flush with exhilaration. I saw her standing in a petite black dress that matched her thick dark hair. I only saw one side of her face, blindingly white in the sunlight glaring at me as I stared at her through the window.
And then she kissed you.
I wonder what it felt like. She was leaning over you, her hand travelling upwards to the back of your head, fingers losing themselves in your hair, melting, trembling and thrilling.
And you held her, too, your arms strong and steady around her petite body and that petite dress. You didn’t let go even when she pulled away, her cheek still resting against yours. I saw her lips moving, saw her smile.
Love you, she was saying.
No. That was a lie. She didn’t know anything about love, that girl. She simply liked you. Love isn’t a kiss. I can explain. Having a crush on someone is warm in your chest but cold and twisting like a cold coiling snake in your stomach and the coldness never really goes away. That kiss was cold and shaky and not right because the love wasn’t real. Maybe it felt right at that moment, but it wasn’t because even if at that time it felt warm all over for a second, afterwards it was cold, guilty, not real. She didn’t know how to love people. Not yet or maybe not ever. Love is not like having a crush on someone. Love is not cold. Love is not like a snake. Love is a blanket. Love is warm. Love is warm and warm and warm.
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Part 5
You didn’t tell me that you were going to die. Mom probably thought you had told me because she never told me either. You told me a lie. You said you were sick but that you were going to get better soon.
I knew that if I believed anything else, I would not be able to keep going. And I had to keep going, for you.
For some time, we pretended like everything was normal. We never discussed your cancer. Life went on for us. But soon, we knew we could no longer ignore the harsh reality we were now facing.
It took a few months, but eventually you couldn’t even get out of bed without my help. You would lean heavily against me, struggling to catch your breath after the short walk down the hall to the kitchen, where you could tell Mom that you were feeling a lot better while you tried to eat a few bites.
Of course, we both knew that you weren’t feeling better, but we said we were glad you were.
Sometimes I’d hear you coughing at night when the sky was black and the clouds were so thick we couldn’t see the stars anymore. I often came into your room to comfort you, but you always assured me that you were okay. I got used to staying up, surviving on four or five hours of sleep, so that I could watch over you.
Ensuring that you were still breathing.
The medicine didn’t work. None of the treatments worked. Everything they did to you only seemed to make it worse. When you turned eighteen, just a few months before you died, and were officially an adult entitled to make their own decisions, you decided to stop receiving the treatment, because it hurt you, and you didn’t want to spend the rest of your life in pain.
Sometimes you cried, sometimes in front of me, because you didn’t want me to be sad.
I won’t be sad.
While you were still there, I was never sad. I was only – well, I was waiting for you to die, when I wouldn’t be ashamed to feel sad in front of you. I was waiting for the time when I really could cry.
So I told you what felt like a lie.
When the time came when there was nothing to prevent me from being sad, I wasn’t sad. I was happy, because you didn’t die in pain, just like you wanted to.
“You okay?”
“Yeah. You?”
“Fine.”
“Sure?”
“Yeah.”
“You look worried.”
“Not worried. Just thinking.”
“About what?”
“Stars.”
We would sit together under the stars, wrapped in blankets, the roof tiles cold under our heads. You named every constellation. Pegasus. Little Dipper. Orion. No matter how old I grew, I always loved the sound of your soft voice when you named them, the way it felt like God was holding me or like I was on a cloud.
I made half of them up, you said when I reminded you about that just two weeks before you died. You laughed, the sound quickly turning into a strangled cough. I held your hand. The alarm buzzed, reminding you to take the medication that kept you alive, but not alive enough, not alive enough for anyone.
It was hard after you got sick, hard for me to help you up the metal ladder connected to the outside wall, the only way we could reach the rooftop. I would almost carry you, in fact, and by the time you were settled and getting warm again, only then would your breathing begin to even out. Getting out of bed was hard enough for you. Getting to the roof, even with my help, was almost impossible.
But we always looked at the stars, for each other.
We did everything for each other. After you got sick, I would come straight home after school to sit in your room instead of playing with my friends. By the time I was fourteen, I had lost touch with almost everyone. I got used to being invisible. I got used to going to the lady’s restroom and hiding in the cubicle so that I could call you and make sure that you were okay, which you always were, no matter how tired you sounded. I called you twice a day, once after second period and once before I ate during my lunch break.
You should be out with your friends, not taking care of me, you told me once, although I could see it all in your eyes – no matter how much you tried to hide it, on the inside you were pleading for me to stay.
I shook my head. I wanted to be there for you, because I knew that you would be there for me had we switched places.
You should have fun sometimes, you insisted. You knew that because of everything that had happened to us, I’d slipped into depression.
I pretended not to care. I am good at pretending. I’m glad about that.
Eventually, I collect myself and get up, wiping the snot from my nose. I can hear Mom calling me from what feels like the other side of the planet. Her voice, shrill and angry like it always is now, echoes off the thick walls of our small house.
I drag my feet down the staircase. I shouldn’t be sad, not after so long. Our neighborhood is nicer, a safe place, and we have more money now. I have friends and attend a good school where I can get good grades and hope to make a future for myself.
But I can never fully escape the place I came from. Maybe I should take down those childhood photographs of us that I still have hanging in my room. Maybe, then, I wouldn’t think of you so much anymore.
You told me once that you didn’t want to die broken. I just looked at you and laughed. You? Broken?
I wish you were here with me right now. I wish I could put you back together.
Your car glinted silver in the sunlight when you drove it for the last time. The engine purred. You drove away carefully, you always drove carefully, glancing back at me through the side mirror. I could not catch your face even when I looked back at you, because the sun was in my eyes. So the last time I saw your face (when you were in one piece) was your reflection in the rearview mirror, when you’d smiled at me before I’d opened the door to get out.
That last smile.
My new friend, but not my best friend (that was you, and after that was Sadie), was waiting for me outside the rec center where we swam laps together every Saturday. I hugged her tightly, because that’s what high school girls do, and I was still hugging her when I heard the massive crash.
I heard your scream.
We raced along the burning asphalt, our breath coming in tearing gasps, dread uniting us for a single cause – to reach you. We thought about nothing except the fact that our frantic hearts were approaching their maximum, slamming into our throats, our shoulders.
Your car was crumpled against the guardrail, pieces scattered on the ground, burning ash and melted rubber skid marks carving a half circle.
I was running and running but I couldn’t catch you; were you falling in the first place?
My not-best-friend screamed. I did not scream. I had no words.
Please God. Don’t do this.
I fell to my knees beside you, holding you tightly in my arms. I didn’t want to let you go, never, never, never wanting to let you go. I held and held and held you.
Your lips moved, the words barely there at all. Fragments of a broken thing sliding sideways on the wind.
It’s okay. This is how I want it to be.
Your voice still echoes in my head.
I clung to you. My friend was sobbing, her hand hovering over you like she could somehow put you back together, like she could somehow fix everything that had happened to us . . .
But I wasn’t crying. You’ll be okay. You’ll be okay. Even though I knew nothing would ever be okay again, I said that to you, because I wanted you to believe that as much as I desperately wished I could believe that too.
Your gaze drifted past me, fixed on the sky, which was a deep cool shade of evening blue. Remember when—
And I did remember.
The treehouse. Counting the stars. The way you laughed.
That’s good. Keep remembering.
My friend was on the phone with emergency services, but her voice had faded into the background. I couldn’t even tell if we were on earth anymore, or if we were floating somewhere between reality and happiness and the brightest star.
I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat that was making it difficult to do anything except cry, and kept on talking. The sunglasses. The neighborhood kids. The house next door that nobody lived in. The jewelry on the floor. The adventure park. The ocean. The pickup truck.
The paramedics arrived too late to save you. By the time the sirens pierced the air, you weren’t breathing anymore, although you were still bleeding, your face a ghostly greyish-blue. By the time help arrived, you were already growing cold in my arms. Your head had fallen back, your eyes still the same brilliant azure they had always been, the same color as the ocean, even though they were no longer moving or blinking.
I remember everything.
One of the paramedics pushed a needle into my forearm, clear fluid flowing into my veins, turning the world hazy and hollow and not entirely real. I’m sorry, she said. I’m so sorry.
But I didn’t hear her.
Things are hard now. I’m different. I’ve learned how to laugh even when I would much rather cry. Little things can reduce me to an emotional pool, and others don’t affect me. Although I’ve made friends, every time I hear my voice it sounds shallow and empty, like it’s not really me at all.
I told you that I won’t be sad, and I am not going to be sad about you. You were the best thing that ever happened to me. You showed me how to live.
Every time I begin to feel sad, I just have to remember a time that you smiled, or played with me, or counted the stars. And then I only get a warm and fuzzy feeling that spreads through my chest and swallows me up and I’m happy – almost – and I wish you were there to see me laughing one last time.
God loves ugly.
Some things will never change. Like the fact that I will always love you. Part of me died with you, but sometimes when I come home after a long day at school, I know that you’re still there, and for a bit I feel whole again. I can pretend that the red pickup truck is still parked outside. Or I can sit in your room for a while and tell you absolutely everything.
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Comments for the Entire Story
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This is beautifully written and extremely emotional, thank you for sharing this. I gotta say, I love your writing style, especially the end of Part 4. (that repetition hits hard)
Comment by AsphodelBlue on July 21, 2025Liked by 2
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