(Mark)
I was watching a basketball game.
It's stupid, isn't it? That's what I was doing while the world was ending. I was sitting on my couch, eating pretzels, shouting at a referee on a TV screen.
My phone buzzed on the coffee table.
I glanced at it. A text from her.
Love you too, babe.
I smiled instinctively. I picked up the phone to type a heart emoji, but my thumb hovered over the screen.
Babe.
I stared at the word.
She never called me "babe."
In two years, she had called me Mark. She called me Honey. She called me Sweetheart when she was teasing me. But never Babe.
"Babe" was casual. "Babe" was something people said when they were distracted, or when they were trying to sound like everything was normal.
It felt... scripted.
It felt like a line of dialogue from a movie she hadn't seen.
A cold drop of sweat rolled down my back.
You're paranoid, I told myself. She's having a good day. She's trying new things. She cleaned her apartment today. She's getting better.
But the "Knight" instinct—that part of me that had spent two years listening for the subtle shift in her breathing—was screaming.
I dialed her number.
It rang. And rang. And rang.
Voice mail. "Hi, you've reached..."
I hung up and called again.
Nothing.
I stood up. The basketball game was still roaring in the background, but the sound seemed to warp, slowing down into a demonic drawl.
She had been so happy today. She gave me the key. She gave Sarah the book. She posted on Instagram.
She gave me the key.
The realization hit me like a physical punch to the gut. She wasn't returning it because she was safe. She was returning it, leaving attachments behind.
"No," I said aloud to the empty room. "No, no, no."
I grabbed my keys. I didn't even turn off the TV.
The drive usually takes twenty minutes. I made it in nine.
I ran two red lights. I almost hit a delivery cyclist. I didn't care. The only thing that existed was the terrifying math in my head.
Text received at 9:42 PM.Current time: 10:56 PM.
Around an hour.
What can happen in an hour? Everything. The universe can collapse in one hour.
I screeched into a parking spot in front of her building. I looked up at her window.
It was dark.
Why was it dark? She always left the little lamp on for the cat.
I ran up the stairs. My lungs were burning, but not from exertion. They were burning from panic.
I got to her door. 4B.
I jammed the key she gave me into the lock. My hands were shaking so bad I scratched the paint.
Please be watching Netflix. Please be asleep. Please be mad that I woke you up.
The lock clicked.
I swung the door open.
"Honey?" I yelled.
Silence.
Not the normal quiet of an empty apartment. This was a heavy silence. A thick, pressurized silence.
The apartment was spotless. It smelled of lemon and bleach. It looked like a showroom.
"Hey!" I yelled again, moving toward the bedroom. "Are you here?"
I pushed the bedroom door open.
The only light came from the streetlamps outside, filtering through the blinds, casting long, prison-bar shadows across the bed.
She was there.
She was lying on her back. Her hands were folded over her stomach. She was wearing my blue sweater.
She looked peaceful. She looked like Sleeping Beauty.
But Sleeping Beauty breathes.
"Hey," I said, my voice cracking into a whimper. "Wake up."
I rushed to the side of the bed. I fell to my knees.
I grabbed her hand.
It was warm.
A surge of hope, violent and bright, exploded in my chest. She's warm. It's not too late.
"Baby, wake up," I said. I shook her shoulder. Her head lolled to the side, heavy and loose.
Then I saw the bottle on the nightstand. Empty.
I saw the glass. Empty.
I saw the laptop. Closed.
"No," I sobbed. "Don't you dare."
I scrambled for my phone. I dialed 911.
"911, what is your emergency?"
"My girlfriend," I screamed. "She took pills. I don't know how many. She's... she's not waking up."
"Is she breathing, sir?"
I put my ear to her mouth.
I held my breath. I prayed to a God I hadn't spoken to since I was a child. Give me a breath. Just one. Give me a sound.
Silence.
Then... a hitch. A tiny, rattling gasp. Like a gear slipping in a broken machine.
"Barely," I choked out. "She's barely breathing."
"Paramedics are on the way. I need you to get her on the floor. Start CPR."
I dropped the phone.
I pulled her off the bed. She was dead weight. My beautiful, dancing, laughing girl was just weight.
I laid her on the rug. I laced my fingers together. I placed them on the center of her chest—right over the heart that I had tried so hard to protect.
Push. Push. Push.
I pumped her chest. I counted out loud, screaming the numbers through my tears.
"One! Two! Three! Come on! Don't you leave me! Four! Five!"
I breathed into her mouth. I tasted the bitterness of the pills on her lips.
"Come back!" I screamed between breaths. "You don't get to leave! You don't get to quit!"
I was the Knight. I was the fixer. I was supposed to be able to fix the leaks.
But this wasn't a leak. This was a dam breaking.
I heard the sirens in the distance. They were getting louder.
But under my hands, her heart was a fluttering bird, getting slower, and slower, and slower.
I pumped until my arms burned. I pumped until the sweat dripped from my nose onto her forehead.
"You won't die here!" I yelled at her silent face. "You're my life! You're my whole goddamn life!"
The door burst open behind me. Heavy boots. Static radios. Voices.
"Sir, step back! We've got her!"
Hands pulled me away. I fought them for a second, not wanting to let go of the connection, but they were stronger.
I was shoved against the wall.
I slid down until I hit the floor. I watched as they swarmed her. I watched them cut open my blue sweater. I watched them stick tubes down the throat I had kissed this morning.
And I knew.
The text was a lie. The smile was a lie.
The only true thing was the silence.
And now, the silence was mine.