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The air inside after she left felt heavier than it should have.
I'd been staring at the phone for what felt like hours, hoping it wouldn't light up.
I hoped even Sandy wouldn't call. I wasn't in the right place to talk to her — not when things were strained between us.
I'd only make things worse if she tried to help. Because I knew she'd notice something was off. She always did.
The apartment was too quiet. Too still.
The kind of silence that lets your thoughts get too loud.
I curled up on the couch, trying to get comfortable, only for my belt to press against my stomach, reminding me I needed to change.
With a soft sigh, I pushed myself up and walked to the bedroom. The air was cooler, almost heavy. The dim yellow light from the hallway spilled across the neatly folded clothes we'd bought at the supermarket yesterday. My eyes landed on the blue pajamas — Sandy's favorite color.
I smiled faintly. Even when she wasn't around, she somehow lingered in everything.
I changed quickly, tossing my clothes in a pile at the foot of the bed. The fabric of the pajamas was soft against my skin, familiar, almost comforting.
Back on the couch, I wrapped myself in the white fleece blanket that always lay there. It smelled faintly of detergent and something warm — like the way sunlight feels after rain.
I reached for the remote on the coffee table, turned on the TV, and scrolled absently until I landed on a comedy show I'd been watching for weeks. Normally, it helped. I'd laugh at the dumb jokes, pretend the ache in my chest didn't exist, pretend the world was okay.
But tonight, even laughter couldn't silence my demons.
Every joke felt hollow, every laugh track echoing through the room like a reminder that I was alone.
I tried to focus on the screen — on the characters shouting, laughing, living — but my mind kept slipping away, dragging me back to memories I didn't want to relive.
No matter how hard I tried to bury them, they always found a way back.
Memories of that night — the night everything fell apart, when I thought things couldn't possibly get any worse.
I could still see him, standing by the door with his bag packed.
"Leave! Isn't that what you always do when things don't go your way?"
My mom's voice was sharp, trembling between anger and heartbreak.
The sound of it still burned in my head.
I remembered the slam of the door, the way his footsteps faded, and the silence that followed — the kind of silence that eats away at your heart until you forget what peace feels like.
My breathing quickened. My chest tightened, the air suddenly too thick.
Did he have to leave right after she did? Couldn't he have waited — even just a little longer?
What was I supposed to do when everyone who cared about me just... left?
My vision blurred. I pressed a hand against my chest, as if I could keep it from breaking. But the ache only deepened.
I stumbled toward the water dispenser. Water always helped. That's what my therapist used to say — ground yourself, focus on something physical.
But my legs were shaking, my head spinning. I reached the dispenser and grabbed a glass, my fingers trembling so badly that water sloshed over the rim, spilling onto my pajamas.
I gulped one glass. Then another. The cold water trickled down my chin, my throat, my chest. Still, nothing changed.
The memories wouldn't stop.
I remembered running to the door every time it opened, hoping it was him. The endless calls that went straight to voicemail. The moment the line stopped working altogether.
I could still hear my grandmother's voice — gentle, patient — telling me to eat, to sleep, to breathe. But I didn't want to. Back then, breathing felt like punishment.
Dragging myself to the bedroom, I fell to my knees beside the bed and pulled my old bag from the closet. Everything spilled out — notebooks, pens, a tangled phone charger — until I found it.
The photograph.
The corners were bent from years of being handled too much, but the faces still smiled up at me.
She was holding me in her lap, both of us laughing under a bright sky. I could almost smell the cotton candy, hear the carousel music, feel the warmth of her hand resting on my shoulder.
Ten years later, that photo still brought me the same comfort her presence once did.
Looking at it, I could almost feel her arms around me again, her voice soft and steady, telling me everything would be okay.
She never lied to me.
She had been my hero — the mother I never had. She made sure I ate, played, laughed, did my homework. Every day felt safe when she was there.
My breathing slowed, my heartbeat following. My tears came quietly this time, slipping down my cheeks in thin, hot streams.
I hugged the photo tightly to my chest, curling up on the floor, my knees tucked under my chin. The cold tiles pressed against my skin, grounding me, keeping me here — in this moment, not in the past.
Why did she have to leave? Why was I always the one left behind?
Sandy had been my sister since high school, and now I'd probably ruined that too. Every time I found someone who cared, something went wrong.
It wasn't fair.
I deserved to be happy — didn't I?
But these past few days had been different. I'd caught myself smiling again. Laughing, even.
That hadn't been my life for ten years.
I'd let my happiness die with her. No matter how hard my grandparents tried to bring it back, nothing worked.
Without her, nothing felt worth living for.
For years, I'd prayed every night not to wake up — hoping maybe I'd see her again.
But lately… I'd been asking when morning would come.
Maybe it was because of them — Sandy, Samantha — or maybe I was just tired of drowning in the dark.
I didn't know how long I'd been sitting there. The room was quiet again, the kind of quiet that felt less like emptiness and more like calm.
My tears had dried. My breathing steadied. My body ached, but the storm inside me had finally eased.
I crawled into bed, still clutching the photo to my chest.
My eyes were swollen. My throat dry. My stomach empty.
Who knew emotional breakdowns could be this exhausting?
I'd had many, but I never got used to them.
Curling under the covers, I let my thoughts drift. I thought of her. Of Sandy's laughter. Of Sam's gentle eyes.
Maybe tomorrow would hurt a little less.
Maybe morning wasn't something to fear anymore.
Sleep pulled me under slowly — just as I was about to let myself drift, there was a knock at the door.