IVY GALANIS' POV
There are days I wonder how Maya and I ever clicked.
We have next to nothing in common. She is the kind of person who commands a room without trying — loud, bold, and beautiful. I, on the other hand, would rather become one with the wallpaper. She prefers her coffee so sweet that it could cause tooth decay, but I do much better with bitter coffee. She is confrontation in heels; I am comfort in socks. The list goes on and on and on.
I know that friendship, or what I'd like to call sisterhood, is not built on such trivial things. But like the saying goes, opposites attract: sugar to salt, chaos to order, and life to death. We balance each other.
Some people walk into your life, and it feels like they were always meant to be there. Maya did not walk. She barged in — noisy, uninvited, and, weirdly, exactly what I needed.
Despite all our differences, she completes me, and I'd like to think I complete her, too.
We met two years ago. A meeting that was not supposed to happen — at least, not in the way it did. Ever since then, our bond has remained unbroken.
I still remember sitting dejectedly beside the train tracks that night; the weight in my chest was unbearable, heavier than my body could bear. I had wandered there, having no sense of direction. I felt like a ghost, heart bruised, thoughts fractured. I sat on the cold edge of the platform, watching the tracks blur, contemplating taking my life, ending it all. I wondered how it would feel to finally stop hurting.
No one paid me any mind. No one looked at me. No one saw me.
I could have disappeared right then and there, and the world would have kept on spinning on its axis. That thought did not scare me; it comforted me. That is how far gone I was. My headspace was shit that period; it still is, but I try to ground myself more now.
But I was ready. I had said goodbye in my own way — to my aunt's disdain and judgment, to the city that never cared, and to the world that took everything from me and gave nothing back. My mom's death had hit me again. At that time, it had been two years since her passing. I was only nineteen when she left me all alone in this world.
There were nights I fell asleep with my fingers clutching the photo frame of us. I always hold so tight that my fingers go numb, as if that alone would bring them back.
I am twenty-three now, and it has been four years since her passing, but it still hurts like hell. The pain and grief arrive on some days, feeling so sharp and fresh and bloody.
Even though I barely remember anything about my dad, since he passed away when I was five, my mom always made sure to remind me of how I looked just like him. The same wavy, black hair, the same straight nose. She always joked about how I was my father's daughter, about how all I got from her were her striking pale blue eyes and fair skin.
Still, I wish I could remember his voice. Sometimes, I try to imagine it. Was it deep like ocean waves or soft like a lullaby? But all I have are stories and the way my face mirrors his.
That night, I had already made up my mind to jump in front of the next train. I remember the gust of wind that came as the train approached, the deep tremble of the ground and the rattle of the tracks. I could feel the vibration in my bones.
My fingers twitched—
And then, a sharp scream tore through the air, piercing the bubble I had found myself in. Before I could process it, a hand reached out to me. Arms wrapped around me, pulling me back.
I had hit the ground so hard, the air was knocked out of my lungs. My palms scraped the gravel, my vision blurred, and for a brief moment, I thought I had crossed over until I blinked up and was met with the face of a girl with wild, blonde curls and the fury of the sun in her eyes.
"What the hell do you think you are doing?!" she had yelled.
She had dragged me away from harming myself at the very last second, but I remember breaking down in tears. Dear Lord, I had cried and cursed her out. I called her every name I could spit out between sobs. I made quite a scene that night.
But she held on to me; she did not let go, regardless of how much I thrashed about. Not even when I begged her to. She sat with me until there were only a handful of people left at the subway and my throat was sore from crying, until the noise in my head finally dulled.
Her name was Maya.
She did not know me, but she chose to stay.
Maya saved my life, and then, somehow, she became it. She gave me a reason to smile again, to laugh again. She gave me one more chance at life.
I will always keep in mind how she made sure I was okay before chewing me out in the harshest, most loving way possible for almost making her witness suicide. It took a long time to have the will to live again after my mom's passing, but Maya stood by me through everything.
She likes to remind me that she is the only one who has ever been there for me. Not like I could ever forget my saviour. I used to think that she was just being overly protective. But now I think she is right — no one else could ever be with me the way she has.
Because without Maya, I don't know where I'd be or who I'd even be.
And this kind of love? It does not feel like a debt.
It feels like home.