vita brevis

I forgive you for dying, but I can never forgive myself for letting you.

They say "every cloud has a silver lining," and I've used that sentence over and over in my head, and it always seemed to work. Every time something went wrong, in ways I could not have even imagined, there was always just that speck of light I hold on to, and if you keep thinking that things will get better, it does. But how come when I used it for you, it never worked? I prayed for you, though I wasn't religious, I prayed. I prayed that things would get better for us, for you and whatever you had to fight against that I was helpless to interfere with.

Fate tricked me, and for a moment I thought my prayers had been answered. You were smiling again, laughing, and to my surprise, joking around. I couldn't believe it. And in that smile, I couldn't sense a bit of façade. For a moment I thought you had changed for good, and that things would get better. "Every cloud has a silver lining," I would say in my head whenever I saw you laugh. A wonderful feeling it is, to have that hope come true in front of you, even for a split moment.

"I miss that smile," I said, and it slipped out of my mouth before I had even thought of what I was saying.

But you laughed it off, though there was a slight shift of emotion in your gaze. "I missed it too."

Then a gentle silence came, surrounding the both of us like a blanket, as if embracing us to tell us that everything would be alright.

Years had passed with this same feeling, a normal feeling of just the two of us in this large, vast world, living such a beautiful life, almost like a soldier out of war, coming back to a warm hearth, wife, and kids.

You were such a ray of sunshine in those ten years that I had completely overlooked the terrible storm you were before. I never once even thought about how you changed so quickly, but looking back, it was because I was so full of hope and confidence in my "every cloud has a silver lining" nonsense that I didn't even bat an eye at what truly caused it. I was focused on living in the moment.

Then one day, you came to me wearing that same worn-out sweater, pulling out a book in front of me, a gentle look on your face. It was The Outsiders, a book I had read years ago back in middle school. There was a faint recognition of the narrative in my head, something about unfairness between Greasers and rich kids. I never remembered it too well, but for you it seemed like a story you would remember for the rest of your life.

"Look at this page," you said, smiling. I read it from top to bottom. It was Johnny's death scene, and I couldn't understand why you kept grinning while reading it. But it was more of a solemn grin than a giddy one.

"What about it?" I asked.

You pointed to a line and read it aloud like a scripture. "Stay gold, Ponyboy. Stay gold. What a heartbreaking line."

I didn't know what to reply with, so I agreed.

But then I realized, now writing this, that it was not just simply a favorite line. You were Johnny, and I was Ponyboy. You wanted me to cherish the moments I had with you, and to keep my innocence and kindness while you were slowly slipping away from my grasp.

After your death, I kept your copy of The Outsiders on my bookshelf to remind me of everything that had gone wrong . To torture me every time I looked at it and saw your soft gaze whenever you were reading it aloud beside me.

I looked at every picture of us together, and I started to notice the small details on your face. Your smiles, which I had believed were so full of pure joy, seemed to crack; the tired lines on your face, barely noticeable.

There were so many things I didn't even think of looking deeper into. I didn't even bother asking myself things like: when you were smiling, did you ever think of dying? Did you hate me this whole time? Did I not do enough?

And your letter. Oh, your letter. You tore my soul away from me when I first read it, and I hated myself so much. You poured your heart onto the paper, and I felt the ink bleed into my veins; everything seemed so much clearer, so much crueler, and I realized how much easier I had pictured the world. Us.

The last thing you wrote was: "I'm scared, Chet. I don't want to be here but I'm scared."

I cried and screamed so hard my throat was sore for a week.

I was mad that you never told me everything. I was furious you kept everything for yourself while you were smiling as if nothing happened. I'm more mad at myself for never asking you about it, for never understanding it. That all along you were smiling for me, that you never wanted me to worry, so you kept smiling.

You didn't want others to judge you, so you kept acting in a way that others wanted to see you in. You always wanted to be an actor, and god were you good at it.

"I wish I was you," I remember you saying to me back in high school. I never took it in at first, but now I realize why you wanted to be like me.

I'm oblivious to pain and suffering. I have a perfect life, I'd like to think. I have a nice family, and I had no trouble in school. But you? You were struggling through the mud all this time, trying to solve everything yourself because no one could help you. And even if they knew what you were going through, they could never understand you, even if they tried as hard as they could.

I'm still trying to understand. And even though I won't be able to understand it fully, I won't stop trying until I feel like I understand even just a little piece of you.

Now, whenever I walk past smiling strangers, I see you… Are they also suffering under their expressions? Are they also going through something their friends don't know about? Are they also acting to fit in with the crowd?

But if only I had known you earlier. If only I had stopped being so oblivious, maybe I could have helped, even if it was just a bit. Maybe something would have changed.

People do things for a reason, and I want to think that you had one—that the decision brought you the peace you had wanted for years. So I forgive you.

I threw away "every cloud has a silver lining" in my head, and replaced it with something else.

Vita brevis, my professor would say.

Life is short.