God's way

Part 13

The days that followed felt like walking through a fog, each one blurring into the next. I was going through the motions of life, trying to keep myself together. I was still hurting—hurt in a way that felt woven into me, deep and permanent. But I could feel myself starting to breathe a little easier, as if a thin layer of peace had settled over the worst of it. The trauma was still there, and I knew it always would be, an ache that might never fully go away.

Then, one morning, my mom knocked on my door. She stepped in, moving carefully, like she was afraid any sudden movement might break me. She gave me a soft smile, sitting down at the edge of my bed, her gaze warm and steady.

"Adma," she said gently, "do you think you're ready to talk about it? About everything that's been going on?"

There was so much compassion in her eyes, so much patience. I felt a familiar pang in my chest, a reluctance to speak, to lay it all bare. But I knew that holding it in was only keeping me trapped, that the only way through this would be to face it. I nodded slowly.

"Yes," I whispered.

Taking a shaky breath, I began, my voice trembling as I finally spoke the words I'd been holding in.

"Mom... Sayjan is a boy I've been talking to for a while. I didn't tell you because... I don't know. Maybe I thought you wouldn't understand, or maybe I was just scared." I paused, swallowing hard, feeling the weight of what I was about to say. "One night, he called me. He was crying, completely hysterical. He told me he was going to kill himself."

I could see my mother's face soften with worry, her eyes glistening with empathy. She didn't say anything, just reached for my hand, letting me know she was there, ready to listen.

"I tried to calm him down over the phone, to get him to talk to me," I continued, my voice catching as the memories flooded back. "I went there right away. I thought... I thought maybe I could save him." My throat tightened, tears forming in my eyes. The next part feeling like a blade twisting in my heart. "But when I got there, it was too late. He was in the bathtub... lying there, with the water all around him. His wrists were soaking in blood."

My mom's hand tightened around mine, her face stricken as she listened, as if my words were hurting her too.

"I tried to pull him out," I said, my voice barely a whisper, the memory so vivid it felt like I was back in that bathroom, the panic, the cold, the horrible feeling of helplessness. "I tried to stop the bleeding. But he was unconscious, and I couldn't... I couldn't save him on my own."

The tears started falling again, hot and silent, and I let them come. "He was taken to the hospital, and they managed to stabilize him, but... I still feel like I failed him, Mom. Like if I had just been a little faster, or if I'd known the right thing to say... maybe he wouldn't have tried."

My mother pulled me into her arms, holding me close, her embrace warm and solid, anchoring me.

"Oh, amuri," she murmured, stroking my hair, her voice steady. "You didn't fail him. You might not feel it, but what you did, is a powerful thing, Adma. Not everyone could do what you did."

I clung to her, letting her words sink in, letting her strength fill the emptiness inside me. For the first time in weeks, I felt something shift—a tiny piece of the weight lifting, a faint sense of forgiveness. Maybe she was right. Maybe I hadn't failed him. I had been there, I had fought for him, and I would keep fighting, even if it was in silence.

And with her arms around me, I felt a small, fragile glimmer of hope that someday, maybe, I could forgive myself too.

It's been a while now. Time feels strange—like it's slipping away from me, leaving nothing but the silence behind. It's been days since I last saw him, since I stepped into that hospital room, hoping to find some small spark of the Sayjan I knew before. But instead, all I found was a person I barely recognized.