32 - Oh, wait. There they are.

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After crying myself into exhaustion and sleep for a few brief hours, I was woken by my phone vibrating again. Surprisingly, it had remained silent since I put it down a few hours beforehand, which gave me hope that he actually was taking me seriously for once and respecting my wishes.

But it was vibrating loud and obnoxiously now in my overtired ears as I reached around blindly on the bed trying to find it.

I wasn't surprised to see Camden's name flashing as the caller at this hour. It was just before two o'clock, so I must have slept for longer than I initially thought. I considered not answering him, wanting him to really understand that I was being serious about the break up; but some unspoken, inexplicable force convinced me that something was wrong.

So I answered, and immediately regretted my decision.

"Sadie . . . I just needed to hear your voice . . . one last time," he said, pausing for a good thirty seconds or so before continuing. "I love you . . . and I'm sorry . . . but I won't live in this life if it can't be with you . . . Goodbye."

He hung up on me before I could ask him what the hell he meant. His voice was slow and drawn out, like he had just woken up from a deep sleep, which I hoped was all it was. But knowing him as well as I did, for as long as I had, and with the intimate knowledge of how many anti-depressants he had stored up in his house between his own prescriptions and his mother's, I wasn't feeling too confident that it was just a waking-tired.

I called him back instantly, but he didn't answer. I called again, and he still didn't answer. I tried texting him to answer his fucking phone, and thought how ironic it was that the roles between us had reversed, where I was now seeming like the obsessed one between us, calling him constantly and demanding answers like he had done earlier in the day.

He didn't answer, and I was spiralling into a deeper panic than I had ever known by the second, believing myself to be responsible for his impending death by suicide. I knew I would never survive that kind of guilt.

I kept calling, but he wouldn't answer. I kept texting for him to answer, but he never did. I called again, and it went straight to voicemail, like he had turned his phone off. I was frozen in terror, expecting at any second to get a call from his brother or mother or someone saying he'd bled out in the bathtub or just hurled himself off a bridge. He'd threatened both before, along with hanging himself from the tall pine tree out the front of his house, stepping out in front of a moving truck on the freeway, and blowing his brains out with a gun. That one was the most far-fetched of the lot because there were no guns in his house that I knew of so I figured the likelihood of that scenario to be fairly low. But he definitely had the means and resources to do the others, and it was all I could think about.

I couldn't take the not knowing any longer, so grabbed my keys and bolted out the front door and down the driveway to my car. It was started and I was speeding along the dark and foggy back streets to his house before I even realised what I was doing. I was on autopilot, and he was my only destination.

I kept calling but it wasn't going through, so I texted him saying I was on my way. I don't even know if he read it because I didn't get a reply.

I called again, and it actually rang out this time. He was either okay and had turned his phone back on, or someone else had done it for him.

I called again and he actually answered, so I pounced on him with a million questions. "Are you okay? What happened? What did you do? How bad is it? How many did you take? Where are you? Fucking answer me, Camden."

"What do you care whether I die or not?"

"Where are you, Cam? Are you at home? Because I'm on my way now. Are you okay? What did you do?"

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