In our junior year… Elliott’s mom died, and his world was destroyed.

    It had been a freak accident. She had been driving home from work like one night when her car hit a patch of black ice and slid and flipped over the guardrail. She wasn’t found until the morning.

    I found out later that she hadn’t died on impact but an hour before someone found her. That would haunt Elliott every day. As soon as I heard the news, I immediately drove to Elliott’s house.

In my rush, I didn’t bother pulling the keys out of the ignition as I hopped out of my car and rushed to his front door.

    “Elliott!” I had knocked and waited for what couldn’t have been all of twenty seconds, but it felt like eternity. I couldn’t call him; I had forgotten my phone at home in my hurry.

There was still no answer.

    Terrified, and imagining the worse, I jumped the gate that led to his backyard. They always – always left the sliding glass door open unlocked.

It had taken some effort, but finally I had been able to slide it aside.

    “Elliott?”
The house was eerily silent, all except for the sound of running water coming from the bathroom.

    Dread drenched me to my bones as if I had a bucket of ice water dumped on my head. In the movies, this is the part where time seems to slow down, but in real life, it’s as if everything speeds up.

   I hadn’t hesitated, I threw the bathroom door open. Elliott was sitting at the bottom of his shower, his knees curled to his chest. His eyes were bloodshot from crying.

    I had said nothing, there was nothing that I could have said. I had stepped into the shower with him. I remember the water being ice cold, but I stayed quiet and together we sat in the shower.

    After an hour, I could no longer stand the cold and Elliott’s lips had turned a slight blue. It took almost an equal amount of time to coax him off the shower floor. I practically had to carry/drag him to his room.

    His room was the same as it had always been. Origami butterflies hanging from the ceiling, butterflies in corkboard frames on the wall, and his books put away in neat rows on his bookshelf. It was as if the events of the last few hours hadn’t touched it yet. It was as if his mom had never left.

I had helped him into dry clothes before helping him to his bed. I borrowed clothes for myself as well.

    “She’s gone.” He whispered, his voice cracking with effort. “She’s never coming back.”

I hugged him closer to me and we laid there together, both crying.

   His father arrived an hour later in a panic. He hadn’t gotten the call that his ex-wife was deceased until much later in the day but the moment he did, he immediately drove to his ex-wife’s home.

   I found out after the funeral that his father moved back into his house.

   After his mother’s passing, Elliott and I’s relationship slowly dwindled down. First it was not talking to one another, then not seeing each other.

Soon we didn’t see each other at all.