FROM SAGE TO SAVED

THE BIG CHANGE

Life has this funny way of shifting gears when no one's really ready for it. We all grew up—18, 19, 20—old enough to know better, young enough not to care. Everyone seemed to figure out their lane, either recklessly speeding or carefully tiptoeing through their choices. Me? I felt stuck on the side of the road, engine sputtering, waiting for someone to notice.

Felix, who once ate every meal with us, found new male friends. They'd occasionally invite us to join, but more often, they'd take their food and leave without a second thought. Tallie, Maya, and Latisha decided sharing a space was more fun, leaving me alone in my corner of the world. Sometimes I loved it—the solitude felt like a gift, a chance to think and unravel the endless words spinning in my mind. Other times, it was unbearable. Silence has a cruel way of making you feel forgotten.

Back then, we had a ritual. Every night, like clockwork, we'd head out under the stars, light up a joint, and talk nonsense until the universe seemed to make sense again. We called it "kumedi," our sacred meditation. And for a while, it worked.

Until it didn't.

That night, everything changed. I don't know if it was the joint or something deeper, but it hit me like a freight train. My heart raced, the world around me slowed, and suddenly, laughter sounded wrong—too loud, too sharp. I froze, desperate to make them understand. "Guys, I think I'm losing it," I said, panic lacing my voice. They just laughed. Felix leaned in, smirking, and said, "Umechiizi"—you've gone mad.

I had never known fear before that moment. Real, paralyzing fear. It was like staring into the void and realizing it was staring back. I clung to Maya like a lifeline, but my mind betrayed me, whispering she'd bury me alive. My brain was a mess of half-formed terrors. I wanted to trust her, trust them all, but I felt like a lamb being dragged to the slaughter.

I remember sitting on the ground, refusing to move. "Just leave me here," I told them. "Wake me up tomorrow." They laughed, not realizing I was serious. It wasn't funny anymore. I swore that night—never again. Never another puff of weed, not even a whiff.

The next few days were a blur of recovery. But something inside me broke that night. I couldn't join them anymore; the thought of it made my stomach turn. They'd still gather under the stars, laughing and smoking, while I stayed behind, trapped in my room, alone with my thoughts. And with that, the distance between us grew.

Felix drifted further, too. He had a girlfriend now, which should've been fine—should've been normal. But it wasn't. I hated her. Not for who she was, but for what she represented: the slow unraveling of everything we'd built. He wasn't mine, not in any romantic way, but he was mine. My person. My anchor. And now, he was hers.

Without him, I started spiraling. Depression crept in, quiet and unrelenting. Some days, I stayed in bed, skipping meals, skipping life. Other days, I forced a smile, planning parties I knew I wouldn't attend. I found new friends outside the group, but it wasn't the same.One party, I drank so much I blacked out, waking up in Tallie's bed, shame swirling in my chest. After that, I discovered my cure for the trauma: alcohol. It numbed the fear, dulled the pain, and gave me an escape. I swapped weed for cigarettes, blowing smoke into the void while my friends laughed at their highs. Felix hated it—hated me like that—but I didn't care.

Or maybe I did.

He'd still visit me, even after his girlfriend, even after I started drinking like it was a second job. I'd accuse him of abandoning me, cry until there was nothing left, and he'd just sit there, quiet, watching me fall apart. Those moments were my sanctuary—messy and imperfect, but safe.But safety has a way of slipping through your fingers when you hold on too tight.

I threw myself into reckless nights and wild outfits—hand-me-downs from my late mom that probably gave the wrong impression, but I didn't care. The girl who once knew who she was, who stood firm in her place, now felt like a stranger. And as much as I tried to run from the pain, it always found me.Looking back, I wonder if that night under the stars was my wake-up call—the moment I realized I couldn't keep living this way. But at the time, it felt like the end of something I couldn't quite name, and the beginning of something even more uncertain.