As I packed my belongings, my roommate Emily entered our shared space. Our separate schools had brought us together as roommates for three years, and her usually cheerful demeanor took a somber turn that afternoon. Concerned, I inquired about her well-being, but she brushed off my worries, attributing her mood to exhaustion. She settled onto her bed, eyes closed, as I finished my preparations. When I was ready to leave, I bid her farewell. She rose to hug me tightly, urging me to take care, her grip lingering with an unspoken depth. I smiled and assured her I was just a call away if she needed to talk.
As I embarked on my weekend journey home, thoughts of Emily filled my mind. Upon reaching my destination, I decided to give her a call, only to find her unreachable. Growing increasingly anxious, I shared my concern with my mother, who suggested that Emily’s phone might be dead due to a nap. Though I attempted to dismiss my escalating unease, it gnawed at me persistently.
Around 9:15 pm, my phone rang, and Emily’s voice came through the receiver. My worries dissolved momentarily as she assured me she was fine but had called to express her appreciation and longing for my companionship. Her words took an eerie twist, for she mentioned missing me despite the fact that she never felt that way during our weekend separations before. Something felt off, and a chill gripped my heart as I inquired whether she was heading home for the weekend.
“No, Cat, I need to go. Goodnight,” she replied, her tone urgent before abruptly ending the conversation.
I stared at the phone in my hand, an unsettling feeling tightening its grip on me. I informed my mother of the call, but before I could relay Emily’s message, our landlady phoned, her voice trembling with distress. Her words tumbled out frantically, recounting a horrifying discovery: around 8:45 pm, they had heard a noise from Emily’s room. Finding no response to their knocks, they entered to find Emily hanging from the ceiling, lifeless. Panic ensued as they tried to revive her while waiting for the ambulance, but their efforts were in vain.
My senses reeled as I absorbed the shock. How could this be? She had just called me moments ago. My skin prickled, a shiver coursing through me. When the landlady’s voice broke through, asking if I was still there, I struggled to respond.
“She’s… she’s gone,” she said, her voice quivering with the weight of the truth.
“We… we just spoke,” I managed, disbelief coloring my words.
A funeral ensued the following day, Emily’s family and I gathering to say our goodbyes. The surreal reality persisted, leaving me grappling with the inexplicable connection between her call and her untimely passing. Her mother shared with me that she too had received a call from Emily, hours before she took her own life.
To this day, the echoes of that final conversation haunt me. I pray that wherever she now resides, she has found the peace she sought in our last exchange, even though the chasm between us is now immeasurable.