‘Sophia.’
I speak her name as if she’s still here. As if she stands in front of me still. Golden brown hair. Blue eyes. A heart too big for this life.
‘Sophia.’
But she can’t hear me. She will never hear me say her name again, or anyone else. She will never know how loved as a friend she was and how much she mattered to me.
I failed her.
I knew she was struggling, knew she was having a hard time. But what did I do? I sent her texts, hugged her when her relationship with Steve ended, told off the girls in the cafeteria. But what did I really do to stop this?
Nothing.
I should have told someone. Her parents. My parents. Headmaster Tomlinson. The guidance counsellor. Everyone. I should have done everything to help her. I had the opportunity to speak up, more than once, and I never did. I thought that it would all blow over in time. But it didn’t blow over. Not for Sophia. It got worse for her and I wasn’t there to help her through it.
My pillow is damp from warm tears. Hair sticks around my temples and to my cheeks. I tremble, shivering from the dying radiator heat but I don’t slide into the covers. I want to feel the cold wash over me, cool me down.
A light tap at the door startles me. Feet shuffle behind it, and the handle presses down but doesn’t release. It slowly moves back up into position. ‘Ulana?’
My mum doesn’t know whether to come in or not. She’s scared of entering, timid of approaching me when I’m like this. I wouldn’t know how to take to me either.
‘It’s OK, come in,’ I say to my mum from behind the door. I don’t sit up, or even look down at the door to see if she enters.
Finally, light trickles in as she edges inside the room. It’s only 6.05 p.m. but it’s already dark outside. Still winter. Sophia’s favourite time of the year. She loved the winter months because she loved Christmas. She loved the music, the lights, the decorations. She’d watch those American movies where families would string lights up on the roofs of large suburban houses in cookie cutter-shaped streets. They’d bicker, like typical families do, but always come back together just in time for Christmas Day. She loved a happy ending.
I wish she’d got one for herself.
My mum clears her throat and starts for the light switch. But she stops, her fingertips on the clip, and drops her hand back down to her side. ‘Are you coming down for dinner?’
I wipe away a tear with the back of my hand, and settle further into the damp pillow, deeper into the soft fabrics of the pillowcase. ‘I’m not hungry.’
I can hear her sigh at the doorway, and shift weight, her hipbone popping. ‘You have to eat, Ulana. I know it’s tough, but you not eating and not sleeping and not going to school will make it worse.’
How could it become worse?
What’s worse than this?
‘I’m not hungry,’ I say again, turning over, my back to her. I lightly touch the thin slivers of cracks in the paint. I wedge my thumbnail into one and imagine splitting the entire wall open. Crack it open, shatter the plaster and beams, expose the ugly darkness inside it.
‘I’ll keep a plate for you anyway, just in case you decide to come down later.’
‘Mum,’ I say sitting up slowly.
She turns to my voice and her face brightens slightly.
‘Thank you. I’m sorry I’ve been so…difficult this week.’ I curl my legs up into my chest and hug myself tightly.
She shakes her head and glances down at her feet. ‘Oh Ulana, I am so sorry for Sophia. I sent her parents a card yesterday. I will stop by this weekend with some food maybe?’
I smile and hug my legs closer, so my knees dig into my collarbones and it starts to hurt. My mum really thinks a hot meal will make them feel better. But she’s trying. Who knows what to do in this kind of situation? What is the right way to behave?
‘They’d like that.’
I feel the phone beside my left hip vibrate and when my mum leaves, I slowly slide it out.
Come outside, I’m here.
I shimmy out the open door and creep down the stairs. My mum is already back in the kitchen, dishes banging against the wooden table. I slowly unlatch the front door and see Aiden standing on my doorstep, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. His cheeks are flushed red from the cold air and a tuft of hair sits across his forehead. His eyes are bright and wide, but they avoid my face. ‘You haven’t been returning my calls.’
I shuffle further out into the cold, away from the warm house, away from listening ears. Closing the door behind me, I seal the light and heat inside, and stand exposed to the cold and discomfort. ‘You shouldn’t be here. My dad will be back from work anytime. My mum is inside.’
He finally looks up at me, and I feel the warmth again, but not from the house. ‘I didn’t know what else to do. I needed to make sure you’re OK.’
‘I’m fine,’ I mutter, my eyes stinging from the wetness again.
‘Ulana, I’m so sorry, I—’
‘You should go.’ I let my voice soften, and swallow hard. ‘I’m so sorry too. I didn’t mean to insult your parents.’
‘That doesn’t matter now. All that matters is us.’
‘You don’t understand—’
‘You keep saying that, but I do. I really do understand. I love you, Ulana.’
I don’t know what to say to him. I’m just so tired. I miss her so much. I can’t think about anything else, not now. Maybe not ever. I’m tired of the lies, the sneaking around, checking my watch constantly. I’m tired of the nausea and knots that perpetually sit heavy at the bottom of my stomach day in, day out. But most of all, I’m tired of trying to keep away from him when all I want is to be with him. But I can’t. Not now.
‘Ulana?’
‘Dad.’
My dad climbs to the top stair and stands beside me but slightly in front as if blocking me from Aiden. Protecting me from this boy. If only he knew. ‘Are you OK? It’s freezing out here.’
Aiden wipes his palm on his jean leg. He holds his hand out for my dad to shake. ‘Sir,’ he says, like he’s seen this scene in a movie or TV show and he’s acting out a part he thinks is appropriate for this moment.
‘Are you OK?’ my dad asks me again, reaching his hand up to my shoulder. I nod frantically at him, and touch my cheeks to cool them down.
Aiden is still standing with his hand stretched outright. He’s still waiting for my dad to take it.
Please take it, Dad. Just shake his hand. Please.
My dad nervously glances between Aiden and I, then finally returns the gesture. They lock hands and shake.
‘Aiden was just—’ my voice hitches ‘—making sure I’m OK.’
‘Ulana and I go to school together,’ Aiden says quickly.
‘Oh.’ I feel my dad relax slightly beside me, as his hands drop down from his hips. ‘Well, we should go in, before she catches the cold out here. It’s nice to meet you, Aiden.’
‘You too, Sir.’
Aiden shifts from the step and turns back down the street. He glances back as I do, and all of a sudden everything I want to say to him right there comes flooding back, but I don’t open my mouth. I don’t say anything.
I just let the door close between us, separating us, maybe this time forever.