I don’t know how or why, but I can see you right now, sitting close to me on my operating table. At first, I’m excited, I haven’t seen you in so long, but then I remember why.

The faint red glow from the traffic light that I had failed to notice mixed with the blinding white lights of the oncoming truck. The blaring of their horn cut through my favorite song, which was playing on the radio. I saw you turn your head to the right, but by then it was too late. Your arm jutted out as if trying to protect me, but a split second later, the old, rickety car tumbled over twice and the glass windows shattered. For a moment, time was still as I hung sideways from my seat belt, turning and seeing your eyes flutter closed, your neck bent at an uncomfortable angle. The screams of the truck driver from outside seemed muffled and far away as I struggled to wake you. I unbuckled my seat belt and fell to the ground, praying that when I yelled your name your eyes would open, but they remained tightly shut. My vision blurred as tears came, and by then I could hear the distant siren of the approaching ambulance. Time started moving again, sluggishly, as we rode the ambulance into downtown, winding through crowded streets and finally nearing the hospital. Throughout the ride and, when we reached the hospital, as I lay on the white, unwelcoming hospital bed, I prayed to whoever was out there that you would live, you would wake up, the doctors would heal you, resurrect you, that I hadn’t caused your death. But when your mother, eyes puffed up and red, trudged into my cold and sterile hospital room, I knew that the gods had ignored my pleas.

Your mother and I held each other for hours, sobbing until our eyes dried up. Eventually, your mother gathered herself together and whispered, “He’s gone, Ella, he’s gone.” A new wave of misery washed over me until I was numb, sitting idly on my bed and staring off into space. After a while, your mother left my room and I was alone with my crushing guilt. I killed him. I was the one who drove. We should have never gone to that party, I shouldn’t have let you drink, shouldn’t have driven so carelessly, should have paid attention on the road, and this would never have happened, I thought to myself, It should have been me.

A few hours later my mom came into my room and sat on the edge of my bed. She held my hand and asked if I had gotten hurt.

“No, I- I’m not hurt, the impact was mostly on the right side. But Mama, Evan, he- he died,” I sobbed, clutching my mom’s hand even harder while fresh tears streamed down my face. She sat in silence as I recalled the events of the night. When I stopped, she sighed and told me, “Honey, I’m so sorry but there’s nothing you can do now. He’s gone.”

For days after I was discharged from the hospital while you were not, I stayed in my room and lay idly on my bed. The voices in my head grew louder, attacking me with chants of You killed him and You murdered him and You don’t deserve to live while he’s dead. Eventually, I had to ignore them, just long enough to get dressed for your funeral. I brushed my hair for the first time in a week, threw on the only black dress I had and a black cardigan, and sprayed some of my favorite perfume. I remembered how you’d always tell me I smelled like a whole garden full of roses and jasmine when I sprayed it, and I smiled sadly into my mirror. I saw the polaroid of us from our first picnic at the park taped onto the corner of the mirror along with a couple of dried flowers and sighed. I remembered how you brought your speaker and played my favorite song at the park, and even sang that song on the night of the crash. It had been playing on the radio and you turned the volume up higher so we could sing along. Then the truck collided with us, and the song became a grim reminder of everything that had happened.

When I arrived at the funeral home with my mother and father, they left to go talk with your parents while your sister came up to me and hugged me. Tears started in my eyes and my guilt came back, the words falling out of my mouth and onto the black tiled floors.

“I killed him,” I said, not even realizing I’d said it until Sophia’s eyes widened as she took a small step back, her hands still on my shoulders.

“What?” she whispered, eyebrows furrowing in confusion.

“It was all my fault. I shouldn’t have made him come to the party with me, I should’ve driven more carefully, I should’ve--”

“I-- I thought this was the truck driver’s fault. But it was yours?” She released her soft grip on my shoulders. I felt my heart shatter into a thousand pieces as Sophia’s face stiffened and she walked back to the front with your mother, never looking at me again throughout the rest of the ceremony.

Afterward, at the reception, she remained cold and somewhat hostile towards me, and so did the rest of your family. I don’t blame them, though. I deserved it. Still, I left early to avoid more awkwardness, telling my parents that my stomach hurt but it would be alright if I walked home, it’s only 20 minutes. They looked skeptical but didn’t question me further and let me go. As I walked, following the GPS on my phone, I felt a sense of calm that I hadn’t felt in a while. The sprinkle of rain washed away some of my pain, and the soft music playing from my phone drowned out my unpleasant thoughts.

As I walked through a seemingly empty part of town, the thick black skid marks in the middle of the intersection up ahead caught my eye, and I looked up at the street signs to see Elm and Washington. I suddenly realized that this was the intersection where we had gotten into the crash, and the events of the night came flooding back while the traffic light above turned red, as if mocking me. I let out a pained scream and fell to my knees, the voices in my head growing louder. He loved you, Ella, how could you do this to him? He was your boyfriend, your one and only, and you killed him. I closed my eyes to stop my tears from falling, and I tried to fight those voices. Yes, I know, I killed him, but he loved me. He wouldn’t want me to cry in the middle of the street, he wouldn’t want me to hole up in my bedroom for two weeks, he wouldn’t want me to beat myself up over this. He would’ve forgiven me. I stood up slowly, wanting to believe it, but before I could do anything else, I saw it.

I saw it before I felt it. When I turned my head, I saw the windshield wipers going back and forth on the windshield of the car just a few feet away. I saw the driver with his head down, one hand on the steering wheel and one hand down near the cup holders. I saw him lift his head at the last second, his eyes widening in shock and his hand slamming the horn. I saw him frantically try to turn the steering wheel when he realized I had frozen, and I saw the car hit the left side of my body, making me double over the front of the car and roll off the side of the windshield, falling onto the rough asphalt. I saw him run out of his car and crouch down near me, pulling out his phone and checking my pulse. Only then as I lay on the cold, hard ground, did I feel the impact of the crash. I could feel the sudden shock inside my body spread from my hip to my chest and through my legs. I felt the burning on my arms and legs where I had scraped against the pavement, but it was nothing compared to the pain bursting from my left side. Thankfully, I soon felt nothing as everything went black.

When I woke up somewhere in some hospital, I could hear the loud beeping of all the machines in the room, and the nurses and doctors rushing around me. I tried to look around, but my head was pounding and it hurt too much to move. Everything was blurring together, with swirls of gray and blue. Even the doctors’ voices were starting to blur, becoming muffled and far away. I didn’t know what was happening, but I realized that I probably wasn’t going to make it. I wouldn’t be able to tell my parents I love them one last time, say goodbye to my friends, hug my little puppy and let him lick my face again. I didn’t want this to happen, but there was nothing I could do now, except wait and accept my fate. Besides, I deserved this, it was karma for what I had done to you. And as I lie in this cold, sterile, hospital room, I can see you. I can see you sitting on the edge of my operating table, your hand holding mine, oblivious to the turmoil around you.

“Evan, what are you doing here?” I ask, surprised yet comforted by your presence.

“I don’t actually know,” you reply, looking around the room.

“I’m so sorry. About everything. I shouldn’t have dragged you to that party with me, I should’ve paid more attention on the road, this was all my fault.”

“No it wasn’t, don’t tell yourself that,” you reassure me. “Don’t blame it all on yourself, I was the one who turned the volume too high, sang too loudly, distracted you, it was my fault, too.”

“I guess, but still. I-- Will you ever be able to forgive me?”

“Of course, I’ve honestly forgiven you already. But have you forgiven yourself?”

The lights start to fade, the beeping becomes more frantic, and before I can answer, everything disappears.