Founded in the fall of 1991, Laurel Moon is Brandeis' oldest, national literary publication. Each issue we publish features original work from undergraduate students.
I want you to know that I’m proud of you, regardless. I don’t blame you. But I still miss you.
When I first arrived in treatment, I knew no one. A staff member took my bags to be searched for contraband, and I drifted toward the sound of voices into the main room. I stood awkwardly in the doorway, wrapped tightly in my cardigan, before anyone noticed me there. Once I decided to introduce myself, everyone looked up and welcomed me. Except you. You sat at the opposite end of the table from everyone else, curled up with your knees to your chest, buried in a book.
It took you two weeks before you spoke a word to me. Around one in the morning, I managed to sneak outside our hospital unit to smoke, and you had the same idea. Even though I knew your name, you introduced yourself to me like we hadn’t lived together for the past weeks.
“I’m Lily,” you said in a voice so hollow I could barely hear.
I exhaled, warm curls of smoke escaping my mouth and nose, and introduced myself as if I hadn’t done so before. I felt you study me, then watched as your eyes dropped to the brittle ground beneath us.
I remember you saying to me “I don’t plan on being here much longer,” and I agreed with conviction, thinking you meant this place. Without another word, you turned and began to creep back inside through the window you’d left ajar.
Before you left, you gave me a bracelet, stitched together with embroidery twine and a pattern of little flowers. Purple and blue, like the colors in your hair then. Our friendship was filled with silence; I think we both needed a break from the noise around us.
You never responded to the messages I sent you after I watched you leave. You left too soon. I don’t blame you for what happened, really. I know how hard it was for you. Blame the world, blame people, blame a chemical imbalance. I just wish you’d said goodbye before you died.