Cala's Heartbreak

A story on loss and grief.

Aug 21, 2024

TRIGGER WARNING — This story contains themes and depictions which may be distressing or triggering for some readers. If you or someone you know is struggling, please seek support from a trusted individual or contact a mental health professional.

CALA'S HEARTBREAK

The silence in Maya's room is so strange.

I've been here so many times in the past and there's always been a sound filling up the entire space.

Sometimes it's Maya screaming excitedly at me or her brother as she narrates one of her stories. Or it was her vinyl record playing an 80s Jazz band only she had heard of.

Most times it was the sound of her furiously writing another entry in her journal.

But today, there's nothing.

No euphoria-induced screaming. No unfamiliar music. No sound of pen on paper.

Just silence.

I hate it so much, and I wish Maya were here to change it.

This is the first time I've been in her room since the funeral and only the second time I've been here since she took her own life three months ago.

At that time, I made up every possible excuse to avoid coming here. I've told myself so many lies. I even almost convinced myself that there was no need for me to visit the space that housed my best friend for the seventeen years of her life. The space that housed us.

The truth is I've been so scared.

Scared that if I came here, into this room, and Maya wasn't sitting on her bed, waiting for me with her legs crossed and a huge grin on her face, then it would be real.

She would really be gone.

It's so silly, I know.

The pills she swallowed were real. The call I got from her mom, weeping that her "baby is gone" was real. The coffin that housed her lifeless, pale body that we lowered into the ground was real. The fact that we'll never know why she did it is real. The fact that I'll never see her again is real.

So what was it about coming here, being close to her too-familiar scent and her presence, that was too difficult for me to handle?

Maybe I'm just a coward.

I take a deep breath and step into the room. I take my time, turning fully to gently close the door, then turning back slowly to fully take in the room.

It's neat, almost too neat. Her bed is laid and there are no clothes strewn around the room, but her writing table isn't arranged and her records cabinet is open with the vinyls scattered in front of it. If she were here, she'd be sitting with legs crossed in front of the drawer, arranging the records in an order that only she knew. She had a new order every day, depending on her mood.

I go on my knees in front of the drawer and roll my sleeves. Then I start to arrange the records in alphabetical order. She always told me it was the safest way to go.

Talking about my best friend in the past tense in the last few months has been so weird. Painful as hell too.

At first, I wondered why everybody was talking about her like she no longer existed. People don't just go like that. They just don't stop being. It made no sense.

In the first weeks after the incident, I would throw fits when anybody talked about her like she wasn't with us anymore.

"She's not dead! She's not gone anywhere!" I would yell.

I genuinely didn't believe she was, even when I kissed her forehead in the coffin. Even after we lowered her body into the ground and covered it with dirt. I still haven't accepted it till now.

Maya's not gone, she's just not here anymore.

I see her everywhere and in everything. I see her in the mirror when I brush my teeth. I hear her laugh through my headphones when I walk down the road.

When I sleep, she's all I dream about.

On the good nights, it's her laughter filling the air as she drags me along a beautiful field. On the not-so-good nights, it's Maya screaming at me from her coffin as she's being buried, begging me to help; begging me to do something.

Her picture is still my phone wallpaper; she's laughing with that beautiful glint in her eyes. She's in every other photo in my gallery- years worth of them. I even smell her scent, as thick as ever. It goes with me everywhere because we've used the same perfumes and hair products since we were seven.

Maya is everywhere I go because Maya is a part of me. A part of my soul that has been painfully snatched from me.

I close the cabinet and stand to my feet, dusting imaginary dust off my pants. I look around the room again; still and silent. The walls and floorboards must know what happened too.

It's ironic that I postponed coming here for so long and now that I'm here, I don't know what to do.

Mr and Mrs Aarons, Maya's parents, told me when I came this morning that I could have any of her stuff that I wanted. They had planned to donate most of her things to the community church charity a month ago, but they wanted me to visit first. They also couldn't bring themselves to stay in the room for long.

Mrs Aarons had broken down as she told me that part, her husband right behind her, holding her hands with a grave look in his eyes. They both looked exhausted, the grief apparent in their appearances.

It hurt to realise how selfish I had been. Yes, I lost my friend but they had lost their daughter. Their first child. To suicide. Maya's death would have hit them much more than it did me, and I wasn't there to mourn with them. I just vanished and kept to myself.

I was a second daughter to them and I wasn't there for them when they needed me.

Like I wasn't there for Maya when she needed me the most.

I sigh and sit at her writing table. I take my time to arrange it; closing notepads, stacking the papers together, and organising her highlighters in the order she likes them- from darkest to brightest.

I inhale deeply and then I open her laptop. It's a MacBook with roses painted all around the casing. It was her birthday gift from her parents two years ago while I painted the casing.

It wasn't my best work but she loved it all the same. She loved everything I did for her.

Maya was obsessed with writing. She wrote about anything and everything, every time she could. She still has journals from when she was three. They're lying in a box in her wardrobe. She loved to take notes about everything; every thought and crazy idea that crossed her mind. Then she would organize them neatly in different boxes, ordered by dates.

Maya dreamed of winning a Nobel Prize for her writing one day. She'd talk about compiling all her journals from her childhood till the age she died and having them published posthumously.

I look at the open wardrobe and see the boxes stacked neatly on top of one another. Something nudges at my heart but I can't figure it out.

Her laptop is unlocked and the wallpaper that greets me is the picture we took last summer vacation. We're both happy and smiling. I stare at the wallpaper till it goes out of focus. I'm ashamed to admit the reason I had opened her laptop.

My best friend expressed her every single thought. It didn't matter if she wrote it out on paper or typed it somewhere. Maya breathed her every idea into the world. So, it kills me to wonder… why didn't she leave a note?

The police had said there was no note in her car when she was found. She also didn't leave any messages for me or her parents the day it happened. This is the girl who writes out every inner monologue she has when we fight so she can honestly talk to me about her feelings later.

So why didn't she explain why she did what she did? Or at least say goodbye.

It ate me up inside. We have to be missing something and I need to be sure.

So here I am, snooping through my dead friend's laptop. I desperately search for something; a clue, a reason, anything. Anything that will tell me why Maya took her life four months before she turned eighteen and seven months before we were to leave for college together.

I don't find anything though.

All the unlocked notes on her laptop contained information I already knew and some notes were locked.

I consider opening the locked notes since I know the passcode, but I already feel so bad for snooping so I close the app.

A familiar realisation rises in my chest but I ignore it and open her gallery.

I'm pretty positive that ninety percent of the pictures and videos in here were taken by me. Maya wasn't as passionate about the camera as she was about the pen. Sometimes, I literally had to force her to take a picture or do a TikTok trend with me.

I scroll down the timeline, pausing a few times to dwell on a picture or watch a video. My heart is heavy as I see her face and mentally relive those moments.

I'm still scrolling when a thumbnail catches my eye. The video was taken the week before she died. I take in a deep breath and I hold it as I play the video. Maya is staring into the camera and she has that mischievous look in her eyes.

"So," she whispers to the camera. "My best friend is upset with me and she doesn't want to admit that she loves me. So, I'm going to tickle her till she says it. I'm gonna record it so she can't deny it. Let's go."

I remember the moment and the memory makes me laugh. I had no idea she recorded it.

***

Maya places the camera so it's facing me where I sit, and then she walks over and snatches my phone from my hand.

"Maya," I say to her, visibly annoyed. "My phone, please."

She giggles. "Not you being all polite. Tell me you love me."

I roll my eyes at her and try to collect my phone but she lifts it high above my head.

"Maya, give me-"

Suddenly she pounces on me, tossing my phone on the couch, and she starts to tickle me. Everywhere.

"Maya!" I scream at her, trying not to laugh.

She doesn't relent.

"Tell me," she says, laughing. "Say you love me, Cala."

"I hate you!" I scream, stifling my giggle.

"Wrong answer!" She says and now she's tickling me with both hands.

I burst into heavy fits of laughter.

"Okay! Okay fine! I love you!"

"You love who?"

"I love you, Maya! Please stop!"

Tears are pouring from my cheeks.

"Aww, I love you too, muah," she says, kissing my forehead. "You make me so happy, Cala."

She stands up, leaving me on the couch as I try to regain my composure.

Maya walks back to the camera and picks up her phone.

"Mission accomplished," she says to the camera.

Then she shrieks. "Calaaa!"

***

The video was cut off because I had jumped on her back and the phone had fallen to the ground.

I close the laptop and wipe the tears that came to my eyes while I was laughing.

Almost immediately, the sadness comes again, fresh and painful as it was the first time.

My best friend is really gone. I'll never see her again. I'll never hear her laugh again.

I hated when Maya tickled me but I'd give the whole world just to relive that moment.

Tears prick the back of my eyes and I stand up immediately.

I'm not going to cry. It's the one condition I gave myself before coming here.

You make me so happy, Cala, her voice rings in my head.

"Then why did you do it!?" I yell in frustration. My voice breaks and I slump to the floor beside her bed.

The worst part has been the questions.

So many questions, swirling round and round every day in my head like a storm.

Questions with no answers.

Why did she do it? What signs did I miss? Was there anything I could have done?

They've gnawed at me every single day for the past three months, relentless and unforgiving.

The guilt I feel is even worse.

I really should have known. Maya was my best friend. We shared everything together. I should have known if she was unhappy. I should have known if she was going through something.

Even though there was no change in her behaviour. She was still her cheerful, short-tempered self and she never spoke like she was planning anything drastic.

She was okay, or at least we thought she was.

People say suicide is not an option, but it clearly is because my best friend is no longer here.

I should have known, for God's sake.

Dad says it’s unhealthy to shoulder all the guilt since I wasn't the one who made her swallow a whole bottle of painkillers. Always blunt with the truth, that man. And I know he has a point, but I can't help but feel responsible in some way.

My mind still can't wrap itself around Maya’s suicide. We had plans to see a movie together on the other side of town that day. She had just gotten her provisional license and she was so excited to drive us around for the first time. It was all she could talk about.

That morning, her parents gave her the keys to a beaten-down Mazda that was supposed to be her eighteenth birthday gift. Then she left for my place, which was about a fifteen-minute drive from hers, but she never showed up. I had walked to her house to check on her and they said she had left since morning.

Hours passed. Then more hours.

Her parents started to get worried and I was worried too. It wasn't like Maya to just run off like that. Our town was a peaceful one, but when nobody had seen or heard from her by five o'clock that evening, we called the Sheriff's office.

They mobilised a search party and started to look for her around town. I was blowing up her phone with texts when I got a call from her mother around nine.

I'll never ever forget it.

"Cala, she's gone," Mrs Aarons had wailed into my ears. "My baby is gone. She's gone!"

The pain that tore through my soul as I made sense of her words was the worst sensation I've ever experienced.

They found her car in the woods at the other end of town, about three hours away from her house. She was sitting in the driver's seat, eyes wide open, pupils dilated, foamy mouth, and an empty bottle of Ibruprofen on the passenger's seat beside her.

They say she swallowed the entire thing.

The whole town was devastated. Everybody knew the Aarons family, and everyone knew Maya as a bright prospect. Nobody understood why she did such a thing. The police finished their investigation. No foul play was suspected. Nothing strange about her death.

Just another rich teenage girl who got tired of her life and decided to end it.

Except this one had no reason to end her life and it pisses me off that everyone just moved on from that so quickly.

I ran from my house to Maya's house that night. Crying and screaming, demanding that they stop the prank and show me where my best friend was. The sympathisers all gave me pitiful looks as I broke down in the middle of the house, swearing to kill anybody who came near me.

Maya always said my dramatic nature matched my love for cameras.

The funeral was held a week later. Mr Aarons insisted that it be a quiet affair. I didn't blame the poor man. His seventeen-year-old daughter took her own life in what was supposed to be her eighteenth birthday gift.

I was grateful for the space to mourn my best friend properly, and not have to deal with annoying "well-wishers", who didn't know a damn thing about her.

They didn't know she had a fear of heights. They didn't know her favourite book was Colleen Hoover's Verity. They didn't know she always wanted her own school, where she'd teach orphaned girls how to read and write.

They didn't know her. So why should they get to grieve her?

Since she died, my life has made no sense. Everything I love to do – vlogging, painting – feels pointless without her here with me. The joy has seeped out of my day-to-day activities. What's left is a hollow void, begging to be filled.

I don't think this type of pain gets better with time. I don't think it'll ever leave.

To be honest, I don't know what to do and nobody seems to understand.

How do I possibly move on without her?

Maya and I were supposed to conquer the world together. Me with my camera and her with her pen. All the dreams we had, just feel pointless at this moment.

Then the thought comes again. Why did you do it?

It suffocates me and threatens to drag me under again.

I miss her laugh, the way her eyes crinkled at the corners when she smiled. I miss her fierce loyalty.

Maya understood me. She knew me and she loved me, flaws and all.

I look up at the wardrobe again and I see her stack of journals.

Anger suddenly fills me and I stand up.

"You stupid bitch, who is going to tell your stories now!?" I yell, tears filling my eyes. "Who's going to teach those little girls how to write!? You think you're going to win a Nobel prize for just fourteen years' worth of journaling!? You said it would be seventy-seven years!"

My voice is breaking and I'm shaking violently.

"Answer me, Maya! Answer me, for God's sake! You coward! I hate you! I hate you so much! You left me alone, Maya!! What am I supposed to do without you!? What do I do now!? You're a coward and I hate you!!"

I don't know how long I shout for but it's not until I feel two arms wrap around me do I completely break down.

The tears pour down and I just fall slowly to the ground.

I've cried in this room before, many times,but she was here with me. She held me. She told me it would be okay, and it always was.

But it won't be okay this time, because she's not here.

"Shh, shh, darling, it's okay," Mrs Aarons coos into my ears as I cry into her shoulders.

"I hate her so much," I cry. "I hate her."

She doesn't say anything. She just strokes my hair and rubs my back.

"I miss her," I say, remorse filling my heart. "How could she do this to us?"

She doesn't respond again, but I hear her sniffle and she starts to cry too.

We lay there on the ground, crying in each other's arms for what feels like forever.

I hope you're happy, Maya. Wherever you are, I hope you can see what you've done.

I look up and I see Mr Aarons standing by the door. Our eyes meet and he gives me a slight, solemn nod. Like he understands. His eyes are red and puffy too.

I want to be angry at Maya. I really do. Anger would be a much better emotion to feel than this overwhelming sadness that eats at me every morning I wake and she hasn't texted me a full summary of her last night's dream.

The grief threatens to eat me whole.

What happens next? What do I do? How do I even move on?

Cala's Heartbreak

A story on loss and grief.

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