August 19th

I shift my silver Elantra into park, turn off the ignition, and lean back into the plush gray seat. As my heartbeat slowly steadies, I blink open my eyes to the raindrops cascading from the dark sky, splattering against my windshield before trickling into the roadside gutter. My fingers reach for my phone, standing upright in the cupholder, and my lock screen displays 9:13. Oddly, it feels much later than just 9 PM. A heavy sigh escapes my lips, and I nervously crack my thumb and index fingers, my gaze now fixed on a resident across the street, their apartment lights flickering to life on the seventh floor.

With bated breath, I watch them retrieve a large brown cardboard box from a cabinet and place it gently on their brown couch. The excitement within me momentarily quells the anxiety that's been gnawing at me. It's a stark contrast to the impending darkness and unease within, just as it mirrors the late hour and the inky skies. Amid the gloom, the city lights in the south end of Boston continue to twinkle brightly, keeping the spirit of the city alive and vibrant.

I shift my focus back to the road ahead as the traffic lights transition from red to green. A bundled-up woman emerges from the adjacent crosswalk, her appearance resembling an Eskimo in layers. Her face is concealed by the fur-lined hood, while her medium-sized pointer dog sports a matching vest. A pang of nostalgia washes over me, taking me back to August when I lived here. I remember encountering the same lady and her dog while embarking on a six-mile run through the Boston Gardens. Back then, she wore shorts and a T-shirt, and her dog panted under the 75-degree sun. Sometimes, I can't help but wonder if staying on Essex Street would have led to more winters like this one, filled with city vibrancy and convenience at my fingertips.

I'm seated in my car, lost in thought when a faint buzz jolts me back to reality. My phone, resting on my lap, vibrates against my thigh. The bright screen lights up with the name "Jen" as an incoming call, and I quickly hit "accept."

"Hello?" I answer.

"Hey! Are you here?" Jen's voice comes through the line.

I twist my head to the right, my gaze passing the dark rustic exterior of floor seven and the resident who's meticulously decorating their apartment. "Yeah, I just parked. So excited to watch The Bachelor."

"Me too, we're so behind, but it's okay. I'll send you a code that you can type in virtually, and the doors will unlock for you. Just knock when you're here."

I swing my legs out from the driver's seat, reach for the back pocket of my light-wash Abercrombie jeans, and press the lock symbol of my keys, causing my car to emit a high-pitched squeak. "True. Sounds good. See you!"

As I approach the building, each step feels heavier, my heart picking up pace again. I love Jen; she's one of my best friends, and I've visited her many times since I moved out. But what never fails to make my palms sweat are the triggers that transport me to a past life when Tyler was a part of it. My feet seem to drag themselves up the mini flight of stairs leading to the entrance, and my watch buzzes with a new iMessage from Jen, providing the code for the entrance.

Facing a virtual black box, I use the keypad to input the six-digit numbers. Immediately, the door's locks disengage, and I twist the knob toward me, stepping into the foyer of the building. I turn left, my eyes falling on a bench adorned with striped square and circular pillows, in the same position as they were when I moved out in August. A burning sensation races up my esophagus, not quite agita, but more like an immediate pit in my stomach, threatening to make me vomit onto one of those pillows. I admonish myself mentally, Marissa, stop looking at those damn pillows.

Quickly, I make a sharp left turn, heading towards the elevator in a small hallway behind the lounge area. There, I spot the same silver miniature mailboxes, gleaming in neat rows of cubbies.

A wave of nostalgia washes over me. This place holds countless memories—some good, some challenging. Often, after finishing my barista shift at Starbucks, I'd be on the phone with Tyler, tears streaming down my face from the exhaustion of burnout, all while the clock barely struck 8 AM. Meanwhile, he would be on his way to his mechanic shift. I'd rush through these familiar golden doors, my phone pinned to my ear, shoulder acting as an impromptu stand, passing by the same striped pillows, the same mailboxes, and the same elevator.

I remember, in those moments of distress, slamming my trembling pointer finger onto the button for the fifth floor. Tears blurred my vision, making it difficult to see which button to press. I'd ride the elevator back up quickly, desperately needing a moment to freshen up before heading back out to my car. Working three jobs to make rent while still struggling to make ends meet, I'd often complain to Tyler, my voice a mix of frustration and exhaustion. "I leave the stupid apartment at 3:30 AM to make it, and I wake up at 3:15 AM for it. It would be unhealthy if I got up any earlier for this!" His response was always the same, "That's the city life," he'd say, consoling me over the phone.

One particular day, I sat on the lounge entryway, clutching one of the square striped pillows for emotional support. I was sniffling because I had just told Tyler about my manager yelling at me for being two minutes late to that same 4 AM shift. There was a silence on the other end of the line, and he finally said, "Maybe you should look for another job." I retorted, "Like what?" And with a chuckle, he suggested, "OnlyFans, maybe?" I burst into laughter and playfully fired back, "Would you subscribe?" I wiped away a Lonestar tear from my cheek. That silly joke lightened my mood and kept me going through the rest of that challenging morning.

The elevator jolts to a sudden halt, bringing me back to the present. It’s doors slide open, revealing a sight that's both familiar and evocative. The blue carpet stretches out before me, flanked by pristine white walls that I remember well from my previous life in this building. In those days, I'd let out a sigh of relief as I gazed upon these very walls, a comforting signal that I was mere moments away from my apartment. It meant I could finally take a seat, perhaps pour myself a glass of wine, after enduring those grueling 12-hour workdays.

Now, as I walk down the hallway towards my destination, my legs begin to quiver with anticipation. The most challenging part isn't approaching the door; it's the thought of stepping inside. My right arm rises, and the sensation of my fingers clenching into fists feels surreal. They lightly thud against the white door, each knock echoing through the corridor, each sound reverberating in slow motion. My heart pounds in my chest as the seconds tick by.

The soft sound of socks brushing against hardwood floors grows steadily louder, and I know Jen is approaching from the other side. The hallway lights seem to intensify beneath the white lamp, making it difficult for my legs to support me. The lock on the door finally clicks open, and there she stands—Jen, with her dark hair pulled into a tight ballerina bun, clad in leggings and a black hoodie. Her warm voice breaks through the tension, inviting me in with open arms. "Hey!" she greets me, offering a welcoming hug. "Hey," I reply, doing my best to suppress my anxieties, even as they persist like a stubborn shadow. "Come in! I have your French Press to give you before we start watching our episode."

Being inside the apartment is like stepping into a time machine, instantly transporting me back to August 19th—the fateful night when I sat uporight, anxiously waiting for a text from Tyler, only to have my world shattered by a phone call from my best friend from home, Newie. As Jen disappears into the guest room to retrieve the last remnants of my previous life here, my eyes fixate on the pink sheets adorning the bed, and I can't help but imagine the once-white quilt and memory foam pillows that used to be here.

My stomach does a somersault across those white sheets, and I feel them cling to the side of my waist. Stretching my right arm, I reach out to the $50 miniature wooden bedside dresser, a DIY masterpiece that Tyler praises me for assembling myself, courtesy of separate pieces and a single-sheet instruction manual from Amazon. My fingertips tingle as they grasp my phone, echoing the warm sensation of the red blend wine I had enjoyed with Grace at El Trattoro, the charming Italian restaurant in the North End. The wine does wonders to take the edge off, and now my muscles relax, allowing me to sink deeper into my memory foam pillow. Just an hour ago, Grace and I raised our glasses to Tyler's sudden silence—six days and four hours of it, to be precise. Not that I was counting, obviously (not). I'm just grateful for amazing friends who know how to keep my mind occupied.

I roll my shoulders to the right, my back now flat against the mattress, head turned towards the blank white ceiling in my pitch-black bedroom, five floors above Al’s Subs in South End. A single wall separates my bedroom from the living room, letting me hear the muffled sounds of Love Island playing on the TV, the occasional crunch of pretzels and chips, and the giggles of Jen and her boyfriend, Michael, on the black sofa. In contrast, my room is filled only with the gentle hum of a fan blowing cool air onto my face.

Using my left index finger, I press the circular home button on my iPhone at the bottom center. A bright light momentarily blinds my brown eyes. The time reads 10 PM on August 19th. My thumb slides open to reveal 14 new text notifications, a mix of messages from Julia, Jess, Taylor, Grace, Savona, Hanna, Herman, and more. I scroll aimlessly through the texts until I reach Tyler and I’s conversation.

Tension coils inside me as my thumb hovers over our messages, my lips curving into a subtle smile that slowly fades. An internal itch, deep and unreachable, begins to gnaw at me, and my annoyance grows with each passing moment.  

"Would you commit to her now?" I had asked.

"Yeah. I understand her not wanting to entertain the idea, though," was his reply.

Re-reading his last message feels like watching a train wreck in slow motion. Maybe he’ll reach out to me soon. But it had been six days—six long days of radio silence. By now, he should have texted me. My frustration simmers beneath the surface as I rest my phone on my chest, gazing up at the ceiling, my thoughts racing.

Suddenly, a loud vibration rattles through my bones, and I turn my phone around to see "Newie" in bold letters across the screen. I find myself staring at the display for a moment, wondering why my friend from Jersey is calling me at 10 PM. Newie and I don't typically text or call each other often; our friendship thrives on face-to-face interactions. She's the kind of friend you know will always be there, and vice versa. We communicate digitally only when it's necessary to make plans in person. With a sense of curiosity, I slide my thumb across the screen to answer and then tap the speakerphone icon to amplify her voice.

"Hey Marissa," Newie greets kindly over the phone.

"Hey Newie! What's going on?" I respond, shifting uneasily onto my left side and placing my phone flat against the mattress. My upper body leans forward, hovering over the device.

"I'm sorry for calling you all of a sudden. I just had to call you because I had news I wanted to tell you." I gaze at my closet across the room, curiosity piqued. "What news?" My voice drops, my interest growing.

"No, it's exciting, don't worry!" She reassures me, acknowledging my confusion and weariness at her abrupt phone call. "Okay," I reply with a small chuckle, shifting my weight onto my left elbow.

"So, I talked to my mom, and she's finally letting me come up to visit you in Boston this year!"

My eyebrows shoot up, and a delighted gasp escapes my lips, sending Newie into laughter. "NO way!" I exclaim. The thought of Newie visiting me in Boston fills my mind with excitement. I could show her my apartment, take her to the Boston Common, the Gardens, go shopping at the Prudential Center, and explore the thrifting spots on Beacon Hill. We could have brunch in Southie and do countless other things. I want her to see my new life, my new home.

"Yeah! My aunt lives up here, so I can stay with her and then obviously come see you."

"Oh my god, that's awesome! That makes me so happy!"

"We can do a belated birthday celebration for you to make up for me not being there last week."

I look down at my red nails and absentmindedly start picking at the corners of my thumbs. "It's okay, I get it," my voice grows soft, even though it's been months since I last saw her, and talking to her now has made me realize just how much time has passed.  I have space to host in my room, and we have extra comforters. She could even take my bed when she visits, and I could sleep on the couch if needed.

"I can host you too on any of the days you're up and show you around the city!"

She matches my enthusiasm. "Yes, oh my god, I've been wanting to go for so long!"

A big smile stretches across my face. "I know! Just let me know what days, and we can plan!"

"For sure. I'll call you when the time gets closer."

"So exciting."

"So how is everything? I haven't talked to you in a while, I miss you." She admits.

I exhale heavily, knowing she's going to enjoy hearing about this one. "It's good. I quit working at Starbucks and signed my offer letter to start coaching."

She quickly interjects, eager to share her thoughts from our shared traumatic experiences there. "See, now you know the pain I went through working there. The hours suck, always understaffed, the customers suck. It's good you quit."

A small giggle escapes me. "I did it because it helped pay the bills. Will miss the full-time employment benefits," I confess, though it's only half the truth. I'm trying to stay positive here, and at the time, it was the only job I could find on short notice. I’m just thrilled my schedule isn’t gruesome anymore. 

"Only if you work over 20-hour weeks," she quips, and she's right about that one.

"True. Now that I'll be coaching, I can't justify waking up at 3:30 in the morning to drive to my shift in exchange for a free Spotify account."

"Yeah, and coaching pays more for fewer hours."

"Right, and I love kids, so this is perfect. How are you though?"

"Same old, I started working at Fidelity, but you knew that, Rissy."

"How's the boyfriend?" I smirk through the phone, trying to lighten the mood. I can almost picture her smirking back.

"He's good. It was his birthday recently, so I bought him a nice outfit and I threw him a surprise party."

Tyler suddenly pops into my head, a figure that I hadn't expected to infiltrate this conversation. The mention of Newie's adorable relationship serves as a bittersweet reminder of the complexities of my own feelings. "Wait, that's incredibly cute, Newie," I respond, genuine happiness lacing my words as I share in her joy for her boyfriend. But beneath my outward enthusiasm, a whirlwind of emotions churns within me, a reminder of the tangled web of sentiments I've been trying to untangle in my own heart.

"Have you spoken to Tyler recently?" Her voice cracks when she mentions his name, and that unsettling feeling creeps back into my insides. I scoff.

"I was just about to talk to you about that. No, we haven't talked in a week."

"But you've talked to him before that?"

"Yeah, we talk every day."

Newie interjects again, her words rushing out. "How's he doing?"

"He's alright?" I detect the subtle panic in her voice as she probes for more information. "Well," I reply, drawing out the word as if trying to piece together the puzzle myself, "he just moved back up to Ithaca to finish his degree, and he's going to start coaching a swim team for a semester, which will count towards his internship credits." As I speak, there's a rustling sound on the other end of the line, indicating her curiosity has been piqued. "Oh, that's nice," she chuckles. "Coincidence about the swim team. Do you happen to know where he's living?"

"An off-campus apartment. He was going to live with roommates but decided at the last minute to live by himself."

A heavy silence descends, and my growing unease starts to turn into a knot in my stomach. My eyes widen, and I begin to anxiously tap the side of my phone with my nail, desperate for her to break the silence. But Newie remains resolutely quiet, and in the background, the TV drones on, competing with the soft hum of my fan, which offers a gentle, cool breeze against my reddening cheeks. The suspense is becoming unbearable. What the heck is going on in her mind? 

"The last time we talked, he kind of flipped a switch on me. It confused the hell out of me," I confess to break the silence. "He said he was ready to start dating again, and then followed up and asked for advice on how to approach a girl he wanted to reach out to and see if she would be interested in dating. At that moment, it felt like I wasted my time talking to him because I gave him girlfriend privileges this entire summer. And he would tell me things that would make me believe there was interest there to grow into something more."

"Well, like you said, he's out in Ithaca now, right?" Newie whispers, offering a reminder.

She makes a valid point. We did discuss it when I was home, and I admitted that I wanted to date him. He responded, saying, "So what do you want me to do? Ask you out, and then I go to Ithaca, and then you go to Boston, and we're six hours apart. How would that work?" The distance probably made it an impractical option. I hate this realization, and it stings to think that I was hurting from being his friend while watching him start dating.

"You're right; the distance wouldn't have worked. I knew if I kept texting him, it was going to hold me back from other opportunities in Boston. So, yeah, I haven't talked to him in a week."

"Oh, you cut communication?" Newie asks.

"I just needed a break from it."

I admit to myself that I'm probably the biggest hypocrite for doing this. He had rolled his eyes and groaned in protest when I brought up my past relationships in college. I don't think he would have enjoyed hearing about my dating endeavors in a city he's not physically present in. I used to send him selfies of my pre-Hinge date outfits, and I could tell his attitude shifted in his responses, despite his sweet compliments like, "He's lucky to take you out; you look lovely." Learning about this new girl he liked in college felt like a taste of my own medicine. If only I had put on my big girl pants and communicated my thoughts and feelings, he might have understood my boundaries better and respected me more, preventing those mixed signals. Looking back, I realize he was probably just as confused about me as I was about him because I wasn't clear on my expectations from him and our connection.

“Marissa?” Her voice quivers with an unsettling tremor.

“Yeah?”  

Oh no. I hear a silent weep through the other line, and my heart starts racing, pounding against my chest.

“I have to tell you something.”

My breath catches in my throat, and I swallow hard. “What is it?” My response is shaky, anxiety gnawing at my insides. Another sniffle reaches my ears through the phone, causing me to shift my posture upright against the headrest of my bed. My hands tremble as they clutch my phone in my lap, my entire body gripped by a paralyzing fear. It's as if every muscle in my bones has been arrested, and I'm trapped in a state of helplessness, awaiting the impending revelation.

“Newie, what is it,” I demand, my impatience evident. 

“Tyler got into a car accident last night.”

I open my mouth, but no words come out.  My throat feels parched, and I can't bring myself to speak. Newie pushes through the words as if she's been struggling with them this whole time, finally cutting to the chase, delivering a blow that sends me reeling.

"...and he didn't make it."

I am, in fact, so terrified that my mind goes blank. My head starts to spin, and it's definitely not the wine. The warm sensation in my belly turns ice-cold. I can't move my body, let alone my hands. I keep trying to clench my fists, but they're so weak that I can't even manage that. It's as if my body has been sentenced to prison and locked away behind impenetrable bars, with no escape in sight. My vocal cords struggle to work, but I fight through the utter shock that has paralyzed me, managing to force a single word out of my trembling mouth.

“What?”

Newie goes silent, and in my mind's eye, I can picture her covering her face with her hands, tears silently streaming down her cheeks as she tries to contain her emotions to spare me pain.

'What do you mean?'" I stammer, my voice cracking with desperation.

No, this can't be true. It's impossible. She must be joking, right? What kind of sick joke is this? She must have it all wrong. There's just no way.

I can hear the congestion in her voice, the weight of her words pressing down on her. "The police found a black jeep, Marissa. It was flopped over on the side of I-80 last night, and they reported that the boy behind the wheel was..." Her voice cracks, and she chokes on the words, "...dead." Jeep? His beloved Jeep? It couldn't be true.

Without warning, a searing pain punches through my chest, escaping from my lips in a high-pitched, guttural shriek piercing Newie’s ear. I double over, clutching my belly, curling into a fetal position on the side of my bed, rocking myself back and forth as tears stream down my face uncontrollably. 

The world around me went eerily silent. The TV in the background is switched off. It feels like the air around me is thinning, and my lungs can't find enough oxygen. I can't breathe; my chest aches, and darkness envelops everything. 

In that harrowing moment, there was no one there for me but my shaky embrace. My world felt broken, and a piece of my heart had died along with Tyler.

I sit up abruptly, my hands trembling as I try to regain some composure. I hastily wipe away the tears that have blurred my vision and reach for my phone, pulling up the web browser. "He's in Ithaca!" I practically plead with Newie, my voice cracking with desperation and confusion. "Are you sure it was him and not someone else?"

Taking a shaky breath, I attempt to steady my voice. "I... I need to make sure," I mutter, the panic still evident in my tone. "Hold on, Newie, just a moment."

I feverishly click through various news sources on Twitter—NJDOT, State Police accounts, local radio stations—all in the hope of finding any information about the accident or confirmation of Tyler's involvement. Each tweet and post only deepens the dread welling up within me.

Then, as if a cruel twist of fate, I finally stumble upon the tweet from NJ511I80  posted four hours ago about an accident on I-80: “Crash on I-80 eastbound West of Exit 37 - CR 513/Hibernia Ave (Rockaway Twp) 1 Left lane of 4 lanes closed."  

He was exit 34, just three exits away, not 37. But in a split second, the reality of the situation becomes all too clear. The proximity is chilling. Panic grips me like a vise, squeezing the air from my lungs. My fingers shake as I feverishly scroll and search for more information on Google, my heart pounding so hard that I can feel it in my throat.

"This can't be true," I mutter under my breath, a sense of desperation washing over me. He told me he sold Jenny. I need concrete facts, not this agonizing uncertainty that gnaws at my soul, threatening to drown me in a sea of dread and despair.

"Well, that's why I was wondering about him because this is all speculation right now," she admits, her words laced with unease. I can hear her soft sobs through the phone, a reflection of how deeply my distress is affecting her. I tear my eyes away from reading irrelevant news on my phone, realizing that it's far too early to find any concrete incident reports. My fingers grip the phone tightly as I ask, "How did you find out? I'm guessing from your boyfriend?"

"Yeah," she confirms, her voice heavy with sadness and still choked with tears. "Since they were best friends in high school, he found out from family friends. It's a game of telephone right now, so it can all very much be rumors. And, like you said, he is in Ithaca, so it's reassuring, right?" Her words hang in the air, a fragile thread of hope within the storm of uncertainty.

I inhale, my gaze locked onto the words displayed on my phone screen. "He was also a great driver and loved cars, so why would he drive his car Jenny so recklessly if he loved her so much?" I voice my thoughts aloud, desperation creeping into my tone. "There's no way he's dead. He's not dead." 

Unless he's actually gone. The memories flood back, vivid and haunting. I remember the times when we talked about running, and how he dismissed it, offering his unconventional advice instead: "Screw running, so much work. Do you know how to lose weight? Just drink alcohol and don't eat, and you'll lean out."

Or the conversations where he delved into the depths of his mind, asking about the voices in my head. I had told him about my single, rapid voice, a reflection of my anxiety, and he responded with his own complexities: "Oh, I guess I'm the only one with multiple voices, which makes me mentally insane. I used to be on antidepressants, but I stopped taking them because it made me feel numb. And now all I do is feel."

And then there were those chilling moments when he expressed excitement about experiencing his next life. Back then, I interpreted it as his peculiar spiritual way of looking forward to being closer to God due to his Lutheran faith. But now, those words take on a different, unsettling significance.

A lone tear, like a shooting star, streaks down my face. It's all crystallizing now. The excuses I concocted were my way of denying his reality, shielding myself from his secondhand pain, and deflecting the war he waged with his inner demons. I was blind to the signs right before my eyes; he was crying out for help. A part of me desperately clings to disbelief, unwilling to accept the grim truth. I refuse to accept it. But the other part of me struggles to reconcile his death with the way he lived. He adored cars.

"Newie," I continued, my voice trembling, "was there anyone else in the car with the boy?"

"No, I don't think so, it was just one person."

Just him. I couldn't wrap my head around it.

"Did they find a letter or anything like that in the car?"

"I don't know, but I do know that you need to take care of yourself, Rissy. It's 3 AM. We will know more information about it tomorrow. I'm going to hang up."

After she ended the call, I hurled my phone at the floor, sprinted across the room, and flung open the door to the kitchen. Jen sat on the couch, her hands tightly clasped together on her lap, legs crossed, watching me with deep concern etched on her face. Her boyfriend Michael stood, frozen in the middle of heading to Jen's bedroom, eyes cast down, as he closed the door behind him, giving me the space I needed to confront the overwhelming torrent of emotions crashing through me.

My gaze, once lost in the haunting memories of that devastating night on August 19th when I found out about Tyler's death, snapped back to the present as Jen emerged from the now-guest room. Her house seemed to be filled with objects that acted as portals, transporting me back to those agonizing moments. The hardwood floor beneath my feet felt all too familiar, the same floor I had paced on that dreadful night. I could almost hear the echo of my frantic footsteps and feel the weight of the news that had crushed me.

Turning away from the brown cabinets and the unforgiving hardwood floor, I returned to the present moment, the comforting surroundings of Jen's house. It was a place where, on that same hardwood floor, I had sat with Jen by the marble counter at 3 AM, sharing drinks as I struggled to put into words the heart-wrenching news I had received.

Now, I found myself seated on her plush couch, watching "The Bachelor" together. Jen handed me my French press with a warm smile, and I couldn't help but be reminded of the night when she had consoled me, offering support and a listening ear when I needed it most.

"Here you go!" Jen said, her voice bringing me back to the present.

I glanced down at the black and silver coffee appliance, a faint smile tugging at the corners of my lips. Setting it down carefully beside my keys, which I had stood up to rest them on her sleek marble counter, I followed Jen back to the couch. The memories of that painful night still lingered, but for now, I was grounded in the present moment, finding solace in the company of a dear friend.