You were in her place six months ago. You know you could save her. You listen to her crying on the phone, as you wait patiently in silence. You listen to her panicked breathing, her questions. “What do I do?”
You listen but your mind can’t help but wonder. You know what she should do. You know how she feels. You know you can’t tell her.
You remember crying like this, six months ago. You remember picking up the phone to call someone, anyone, who was willing to still listen. You had run out of options, your emotions were starting to destroy you. You remember how it felt when your friends told you, “end it.” You knew you couldn’t.
You remember the boy who caused it. You remember the early days of your vague relationship with him, when he was flirtatious and warm, when he was still winning you over. You forgot what unhappiness felt like whenever you were around him. You felt all the weight on your tired, 16-year-old heart, fade away when you were with him. You remember that this, this feeling, did not last.
You remember how he began to tear himself away. You would walk into a room and he would smile, say a hello, and walk away. You would blame yourself. You were the girl he wanted before. You were now the girl he no longer wanted.
You would still receive late-night phone calls. You would lie on your bed, listen to the sound of his voice, listen to how his day went. You would be his source of comfort. You remember how that ounce of happiness returned, and you remember how you would take something, anything from him. You remember closing your eyes, on the verge of sleep, thinking of how much you loved him. You remember knowing that this situation was already broken. You were running out of energy, your body was giving up the hope it retained.
You remember, in pieces, the final days. You remember how he said he loved you. You remember how, not long after, he ended it. You sat and listened and held back tears and walked out of the room with your head held high but your feet sinking. You finally understand that a broken heart was both a physical and emotional entity. You did not think you could survive.
You sit here, months after, listening to her go through it all. You remember now how long it took you to get to this place. You remember that it almost killed you. You remember telling yourself that you would not be weak. You remember how you still got through.
You know how she will have to do it, too. You feel the urge to tell her – end it now. You want her to save herself, and you want to save her. You know what it feels like when it’s too late. You know what it’s like to carry around the eternally fragmented heart, holding it back from feeling any more.