I'll tell you what happen

His heartbreaking choice

You never know what might happen.

One day you wake up and your world is shaken to the ground. But you don't know it yet. Not until you go to the train station like every other day where you meet a friend. But today she is upset. She doesn't look you in the eyes, she doesn't speak or smile. She is not there and you don't understand what is happening. What is happening? Because you never think one second that something might be so terribly wrong that she is not the only one concerned. So you ask. "What's happening with you?" and there it is, this look hurt and sadden. "You don't know?" "What don't I know?" "Raphael is missing." One statement. At first I thought it's wasn't that big of a deal. Nothing to worry about. But then suddenly this bad feeling came crawling up my spine. No. It couldn't happen. I was supposed to be protected from tragedy. We all were supposed to be, because it only happens to others, right? The hours passed and there was still no news. No him. He left home without any bag or phone. He was now a shadow in the forest. Free from all worries, free from all responsibilities while we were all dying a little bit more every second. You wonder what you should do. You are in high school but you cannot concentrate because you think about every person who is looking for him. Was it just a choice made by anger or sadness? Did he plan on coming back? Was he alive? For three days we were waiting. And deep down you knew. Deep down you already gave up. You don't even pray anymore. You don't hope. And finally it was over. He came back to us. But not how we wanted him to.

You were at the library, looking at your feed on Facebook. Spying people, when you received a message in a group conversation. One of your friend sent a screenshot of a post on the wall of Raphael implying that he wasn't breathing anymore. He just stopped. You thought you were prepared for that. But you weren't. Pain and grief came crashing like mighty waves, the ground opened up and swallowed you. Nothing made sense anymore.

Nothing.

There was only darkness and tears. Lots and lots of tears.

I remember.

Your knees cannot hold you, your heart is breaking and breaking and breaking in millions pieces. You wonder how you are going to fix it. You wonder if you will be able to stand up again. There is no right words to describe the loss of a person you loved. People tried to explain it, but how can you explain that one minute a person is here, walking the surface of a the earth, making projects, building a future and the one after the person just disappeared. The body is still here, but the soul is gone.

You remember every moment.

The grief melt with guilt. Because you never saw that something was wrong. Because you never told him how important he was, how much you loved him. Because you prayed, but inside you had already given up. And then you think it is a bad joke. You don't believe it.

Later you learn that his own brother found him in the backyard, laying there, peaceful.

So he did come back.

Later you learn that he decided to take his own life with pills.

He thought that was the only solution.

Was it?

Wasn't there any help fitting for his existence?

Why are some people able to fight when others don't?

How can you end up at that edge?

How couldn't we notice anything?

He  was hurting and we were not there for him.

It broke my heart.

I cannot speak for the others, but I can tell you my side of the story.

I didn't know him that much. He was a friend. We went to school together, we took the train every morning together. He made me laugh. He was worth to be known.

For me the universe crumbled, opening a scar, alternating the logical course of things.

In others words, his death created a mess.

The burying ceremony was magnificent. Hundreds of people came to celebrate his life. To be reminded of the great guy he was. Oh he was so loved and he didn't know it.

His sister sang for him for the first time in front of a public. I really wish he was there to clap his hands and encourage her. At that precise moment I wished he could see us. But really I didn't know if he could.

Still it didn't feel real.

More like a dream.

A nightmare that goes on and on. And I would say "Aren't you tired to keep me awake?"

I would like to sleep through it, to not have to stand, to not give in reality. But if nobody does, who will?

At the end, we went to give our condolences to the family. We had to pass in front of the closed coffin.

It made it real. Because no matter how much we wanted it be a prank, it was undeniable that his young body was laying there lifeless.

After that, we directed ourselves to the cemetery back in his childhood village. I wasn't sure I wanted to go, but I needed it. To say goodbye.

To wave one last time.

Why was it so hard?

Nobody prepared me for such an event.

For two years after that, I couldn't write.

Which should alarm you that something was really going wrong.

For a year I couldn't write anything at all. Every word was blocked in my mind. I was an empty shell. Every night I cried to sleep, I dreamt of him, I hoped he would come back. I missed him so much but I refused to remember because it hurt too much. But this pain was nothing I had experienced before. It was constantly present, throbbing inside my veins, taking away my life source. But I refused to say I wasn't okay. I refused to call it depression. I refused to be weak. Therefore I wore a mask. The smiling happy girl. The strong woman who never gets shaken. The one who is not throw in a well of sorrow.

Why was it so hard to admit that I was feeling so bad on the inside? Because I would have to talk about it. Talking revives, and I wanted to bury it. I wanted to forget. In the process I lost the sense of feeling. I lost pure and simple joy. I lost myself.

And I came back.

I went up the stairs to grab the offering hand. Light invaded my soul.

Finally I saw the end of the tunnel.

For another year, I couldn't write anything but about him. About the feelings he created. About the hole of his absence. It was my cure. Write to get it out.

It never got out completely and I think it will never do.

I continued to cry.

His name was still silenced.

The memories were still dark.

But at least I found my voice again.

I never found the courage to visit his grave. Not because I find it stupid, I do a little, but because it won't help. He is not more there than he is in my room. All his bones are doing is synchronising with the dirt.

So I honoured him in my stories, in my poems.

Eventually, it stopped hurting as much.

Something shifted, and his name made me smile. And the memories were addicting. They made him come to life for some time.

The world started to turn again.

And the sun was a little brighter.

Raphael will never be forgotten.

Not as long as we remember.

Not as long as we are alive.

Not as long as I keep writing about him. 

He is eternal.

He lives with all of us.