Too Tired for Panic

For weeks I’d pushed it down—consciously or not—the fact that I was about to leave. Until that morning. I woke before eight and felt the future pressing into the room. Eniz had left me a note: We all know it and we all believe in you. Don’t forget us. You are and always will be our brother. I stared at the boxes stacked on the floor in a kind of mild trauma, my whole life folded and taped shut.

The sun was in my eyes when I said goodbye to Ana—I could only see the outline of her lips. It would probably take her a few more weeks to really understand I was gone. She’d cried on the train home. She gave me a small Patrick Star—the stuffed one that says "you’re my best friend" when you press its hand—and I stood there by the lake holding it, listening to the water, then pulled her into a hug one last time and kissed her on the cheek.

It was already three in the morning when Becca and Eniz sat down on the floor in front of me. We’d put the Skip-Bo cards aside by then. Someone named Lisa had messaged at some point that evening: I read your blog and almost cried. Your thoughts are beautiful. Becca and Eniz were the last people I hugged in Buchloe. I got into the car and was too tired to panic. A text from Becca came while we were driving: It’s raining. Buchloe is sad you’re gone.