I still remember the night; it’s forever lodged in my brain. The date was September 24th—a Tuesday. A seemingly regular weekday, except that it was on that Tuesday that Chelsea had chosen to take her own life.
The warning signs were the first to come. A word scattered throughout our dialogue threw our conversation off. Anyone less experienced wouldn’t have noticed, but luckily, I did.
Unfinished homework, abandoned study guide, forgotten dinner; nothing mattered anymore except Chelsea.
For the first time in my life, I picked up the phone and called her.
“Chelsea, I know what you’re thinking, and—” I began, my gut wrenching with apprehension.
“Fine. I’m fine,” was her broken reply. With that she hung up.
I knew she wasn’t okay, I knew she wasn’t.  Evening melted into night, and my fingers didn’t rest idly for a second. They moved, feverishly, across the screen, my mind raced, and the night air from the open window brought a cold sweat to my face.
Fresh air had never felt so suffocating. 
Images flashed across the screen, and my eyes kept scrolling. I regretted everything I hadn’t asked. I didn’t know anything about Chelsea. I didn’t know what I needed to know.
  The relentless searching continued on for hours, very late into the night. I didn’t give up; I couldn’t bear the thought of giving up. At two o’clock in the morning, I found what I was looking for.
XXX XXXXXX Ave, San Diego, CA.
---
I never smoked. Being the good child I was, drinking, drugs, parties, and illegal activities were never my cup of tea. I guess in a sense I was a bit naïve as well. The concept of self-destruction was something I couldn’t quite grasp, and I only pretended to know the extent of depression. Even the most moralistic have their flaws though; Chelsea was my flaw. She had a way of getting to you, whether intentionally or not, seeping into your lungs, like second-hand smoke.
Chelsea had it rough. You could tell in the way she carried herself, the way her eyes occasionally glazed over, and the hitch at the end of her words. For the longest time I taught myself to overlook it all, that I was just imagining things. Delving into her life could only lead to trouble, to drama, and I tended to steer clear of it all. Still, there comes a time when blind eyes and averted gazes just don’t suffice any longer.
The night I first truly saw her was the night she showed me her scars: the physical reminders of a disregarded child and a broken family. That was the first time I was forced to acknowledge her vulnerability. The image of her hunched silhouette is still embedded somewhere deep in my mind, I listened to her speak, her voice hoarse with emotion.
One “chance” meeting just led to another, and soon it became a bit of a habit. They say habits are hard to break, and even in the seemingly harshest of weathers, I dutifully showed up and comforted her. Chelsea was like a broken china set, and bit by bit I began to uncover the pieces of her that were buried in dust. I searched under the cabinets and attempted to fit the jagged fragments together.  She’d had a long battle, fighting her clinical depression since she was eleven. Hearing that made me even more determined to help her. In the coldest of nights, through cracked lips, I would give her advice and encouragement.
We sat together in the dry air of late fall. I spoke to her, but she had a distant look in her eyes. I began to wonder if she was really listening.
“Chelsea…,” I began.
“Mhm?” was her vague reply.
I examined her more closely, but she didn’t seem to notice.
“Chelsea, do you hear me?” I asked, curiosity creeping into my tone.
I got another ambiguous response. Something to do with drifting off, but ironically, I wasn’t listening. My mind was absorbed in other matters. I suppose I couldn’t blame her for not hearing me that day.
  They say opposites attract, so I concluded that was why Chelsea had stepped into my life. I figured that maybe because we were so different, I would be able to help her more than others; like I could dilute her sadness with my happiness. It didn’t matter so much that her depression might eventually affect me, because I was entirely focused on making her happy, not much else got through my tough skin.
But you know, fixing a person isn’t like fixing a toy. When you fix a person you put yourself up to be broken.
Our health teacher stood at the front of the class, lecturing us on the proper use of contraceptives. I wasn’t listening.
Sliding further down in my chair, I glanced down at my phone and sent yet another text to Chelsea. Within a few seconds, she replied again. This went on for a few more minutes before the teacher came around with our test grades.
My best friend nudged me from across the row. I glanced up, before motioning to be left alone. Then I looked back at my phone.
“What’s gotten into you? You’ve changed… is everything alright?” she asked, leaning across the row.
She received a bewildered expression. At that moment, the teacher began making her way up the aisle again so we both turned our attention back to the front of the classroom. 
Our conversation ended there, but it got me thinking. I brushed off the thought. Chelsea couldn’t possibly have had that much of an effect on me.
As was always the case with Chelsea, brief spells of quietude were always followed with abrupt bouts of emotions. I hadn’t had much experience at that point, so when the first bad spell hit, I was quite unprepared.
I caught her a few nights later as she was returning home. We hadn’t spoken in days; she was outright avoiding me.
“Chelsea, why are you blocking me out?” I asked, grasping her frail arms.
She shook out of my hold, and with a stony gaze responded, “Let go of me. Now.”
Taken aback, I let go. “What is it this time Chelsea? I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”
“I don’t need your help! Why can’t you just step out of my life? What made you think any of this was your business anyway? You don’t, no; you will never understand what I’m going through. Just leave me alone.” She had tears in her eyes by that point.
I stood there, dumbfounded for a good long while. Neither of us moved.
“Don’t follow me.”
With that she stalked away. 
I checked my email that night, like I usually do. My inbox was filled to the brim with Chelsea. Every word she had ever put into writing about her depression was there. Always a new message waiting for me when I got home.
I’d open my email, scroll through the new messages, read one or two of her rants, and close it for the night. Unlike before, the content no longer fazed me. Still, her words echoed in my mind, and I began to feel myself drawing away, ever so slightly.
The days began rolling into one, a steady flow of minutes, hours, seconds, a huge contrast to the rocky valleys and the sheer cliffs of Chelsea’s depression. Routine was soon shattered with Chelsea’s news though.
She was moving away.
In my heart, a part of me was glad. I convinced myself that her moving was good; a fresh start for us all. In reality, maybe I was just wearied from it all, from Chelsea, from her depression, or maybe from the growing up that came from it all.
Neither of us got that fresh start though. I, at least, was too deeply involved to simply let go. Hesitant to commit but dedicated once committed; that’s how I was. Distance was a challenge to our friendship; though it only made me hold on tighter. I liked challenges, and it was too late to back out from the duel. 
Our midnight meetings stopped, at least in a sense. Instead, we both became well acquainted with this thing called the internet. That’s how we continued to ‘meet’: late at night, the dim artificial light glinting off of wearied pupils. 
Distance allowed more breathing room for the both of us, but it also harbored more secrets. I didn’t know about Brent until it was too late. She loved him, and she had deluded herself into thinking he loved her back. Chelsea was sixteen at the time, too young to know what love really was. It wouldn’t have been so bad had Chelsea been stronger.
All sense of reality left her when she was with Brent, and even more so when he left her. I suppose the reason she told me was because there was very little I could do. So, I simply watched helplessly from the sidelines.
I watched as she became infatuated with him, as she opened up to him, as she became happy because of him; watched as he closed up, as he withdrew, and as he broke her heart. Chelsea was naïve; her naivety led to her suicide attempts.
---
XXX XXXXX Ave, San Diego, CA.
From the hundreds of photos she had sent me throughout the course of our friendship, I had finally found the one I needed. There was her address, blurred out and faded on the image of a cardboard box; a gift she had gotten two and a half years back.
I’ve found it, was the only thing my mind could think, and with those words echoing in my mind, I picked up the phone in shaky hands, and dialed the number I needed.
I called the San Diego police.
At 3:30 A.M, the police showed up at Chelsea’s doorstep. By 4:00 A.M, she was checked in to a mental hospital.
A restless sleep followed after hanging up. Three hours passed before Wednesday morning had begun. I failed the vocabulary quiz that day, but it didn’t matter. My mind was on Chelsea. People asked me if I was alright, and I knew I would be fine eventually, but nothing seemed real. After such a momentous night, it seemed so odd that people could continue on like normal, as if nothing had happened.
I came home that evening to a new set of messages. Our conversation that night was brief:
“Who did it?”
“I don’t know,” I lied.
“I hate them.”
“Why?” I asked.
I never did get a response.