Far From You

62

FOUR MONTHS AGO (SEVENTEEN YEARS OLD)

After Mina stops breathing, I can’t let go of her. I know I have to. I need to get up. Find help.

I have to let go.

I whisper to myself, rocking, her back pressed into my chest, her head cradled in the crook of my neck, my arms around her. “C’mon. C’mon.” But it’s almost impossible to unclench my fingers. To grasp her shoulders and lay her down on the ground. I tuck my jacket beneath her head. I wish, in a frantic moment that’s so sharp it leaves me gasping, that I had something to cover her with. It’s cold outside.

I brush a strand of hair off her forehead, smoothing it behind her ear. Her eyes are still open, hazy now, staring but not seeing the endless sky.

My hand shakes as I close them. It feels so wrong, like I’m taking away the last part of her.

I stagger up off my knees and drag myself, stumbling, toward the car. The door’s open, and the keys and our phones are gone.

Help. I need to get help. I repeat it over and over in my head. I have to drown it out, the voice that screams Mina, Mina, Mina, over and over and over.

I take one unsure step. Then another. And another.

I walk away from her.

It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done.