The Quiet Collapse

Depression. A word I once brushed past, polite and distant - until it cracked open the floor beneath me and engulfed everything I was. In the way a light flickers out - once, twice - and then never turns back on.

I didn’t know it then, but I died too, in pieces. Grief didn't come as a storm - it came as a sequence of earthquakes. One after another. No time to rebuild between the tremors.

I remember the night my brother died more vividly than I remember yesterday. The shock kept my body wired, grief pounding through me like a second heartbeat. I didn’t sleep for a full 40 hours, two days. But finally, exhaustion came like a mercy. I must’ve dozed off, because I remember waking up suddenly, confused but calm, a false sense of relief. The world felt soft, quiet, like it had clicked back into place. For one whole breath, I actually believed it was just a nightmare.

I needed to call him. I had to tell him about the awful dream I’d just had, needed to laugh with him about how real it felt, how much it scared me.- how he had left, how I couldn't stop it. I reached for my phone, heart pounding with urgency and relief, dialing his number with shaking hands. I went to stand up and instantly collapsed, my body weak from crying and sheer exhaustion.

It rang. And rang. And then, his voice - Hello? - Awake. Familiar. Whole. Alive.

I started talking fast, desperate to reach him, to hold onto him with words alone. “Chris,” I said. “You were gone. You’re so stupid. I couldn't stop you-”
But then... he laughed. “Hahaha, you fell for it! Leave me a message!”

I crumpled to the floor. It wasn’t a dream. It was never a dream.

I called again the next night. And the one after that. I left voicemails that were more like eulogies, like confessions or prayers, like desperate attempts to anchor myself to whatever part of him was still reachable. I screamed. I sobbed. I said I was sorry. I told him I hated him. I told him I loved him. I tried everything I could to make him hear me. Until one day, a different voice answered. “The mailbox you are trying to reach is full.”

I had filled it. With every raw, shredded piece of me. And now, even that was gone. No more laughter. No more voice. Just a digital silence that echoed louder than anything I’d ever heard.

I tried to hide the collapse. Slipped through rooms like a ghost. Closed doors behind me like I could shut out the pain if I built enough walls. I stepped into the shower and wept with the kind of grief that only knows how to shake a body apart. Silent sobs. Trembling hands over my mouth so no one would hear the sound of me breaking over and over.

That was the moment something shifted. Something flipped inside of me - without warning, without consent. I couldn’t have named it then, but I see it now: that was the moment I stopped trusting the world to hold anything sacred. That was the day I realized how easy it is for the universe to take everything from you.

Since then, I’ve lived in a state of quiet retreat. I push people away before they have the chance to leave. I convince myself I’m too much - too broken, too complex, too heavy to carry. I call it self-preservation, but really, it’s fear dressed as strength. I tell myself I’m easier to love from afar. But the truth is, I’ve forgotten how to believe I’m worth staying for.

And still, every so often, I wonder if Chris knew… When he pulled that trigger, did he realize he'd be taking me, too? Not my life. Just… my light. My softness. The version of me that believed love was enough to save someone.

I don't think he knew. He wasn’t that kind of person, He wasn’t cruel, he was hurting. He wouldn’t have left me behind if he had truly known the depth of the void he’d create. There are days I ache with a silence so loud it feels like my body is screaming from the inside out. Days where the grief doesn’t just knock the wind out of me - it robs me of the will to breathe it back in. And in those moments… I admit it, I wish he had taken me with him.

Not because I want to die. But because living without him feels like a kind of death all its own. A long, slow unraveling of everything I once was. He was my soul twin, I was tethered to him in ways no one else saw - like our souls were stitched together with invisible thread. And when he left, he didn’t just cut the cord. He ripped it. And it tore through me like lightning through a tree, splitting me down the middle. Because being left behind... it doesn’t feel like survival. It feels like exile. Like I’m walking through a world that no longer fits. Like I’m breathing in a place where I no longer belong.

But even in that depth, even in that darkness, I keep going. Not because I want to. But because part of me still hopes there’s something on the other side of this pain. Something worth staying for. I can keep him alive in a world he didn’t survive. Maybe I can build something sacred out of the ruins he left behind.

So now I live with that void. I carry it around like an invisible wound, bleeding into every relationship, every connection, every conversation I don’t reply to. I get scared that loving someone means counting the minutes until I lose them. I get scared that every “hello” is a countdown to “goodbye”. I really have gotten so damn good at goodbyes.

That’s the real curse of grief. Not the death itself - but the way it teaches you to fear everything that’s still alive.

Author’s Note:
Originally written July 7, 2022 - This is one of the more vulnerable things I’ve written - a memory I’ve held close for years, finally given a voice..

I debated for a long time whether to share this one. It feels sacred. Other than my therapist, I’ve only recently shared the details of this night with one person. For a long time, even the thought of speaking it out loud made my throat close up. The first several weeks after he died were the worst - not just emotionally, but physically. My body didn’t know how to hold the grief. I couldn’t eat, couldn’t sleep, couldn’t stop shaking. I walked around in a fog so thick I’d forget where I was mid-sentence. I remember staring at walls for hours, not thinking, not crying - just gone.

I was split in two: the version of me everyone saw, holding it together with polite nods and quick "I'm fine"s… and the version that collapsed in the shower, face buried in a towel, weeping like an animal. I was so afraid to let anyone too close, because if they saw the full wreckage, they’d run. Or worse — try to fix it.

But this night... this one night stuck with me like a scar. The voicemail. The second I heard his voice, I truly believed he was still alive. For one breath, he was still here. I’ve never felt anything more cruel and tender all at once. It shattered something in me. And in the silence that followed, I realized: the worst part of grief isn’t the funeral, or the flowers, or even the last goodbye. It’s the after. The empty space where a person used to be. The constant aching realization that no matter how many times you call, they will never, ever pick up.

I’ve kept that memory locked away for so long - not because I wanted to forget it, but because I needed to protect it. Because that was the last time I ever heard his voice. And sharing it out loud felt like handing over a piece of him I wasn’t ready to give away.

But I’m learning, slowly, that sharing these stories doesn’t mean I lose him. It means I keep him alive in the only way I still can - by making sure he’s remembered. Not just for how he left, but for how deeply he was loved. But if you’ve ever felt swallowed by loss… if you’ve ever called someone who couldn’t pick up… if you’ve ever whispered “I miss you” into the dark, hoping it echoes back - this is for you.