Grief.

"What do you think happens when you die?" he asked.

The girl shrugged. "I hope nothing. You'd just turn off like a T.V. There's comfort for me to think nothing happens, all that matters is what you make of your time alive."

"I'd like that," the boy answered.

They had been talking online for past a decade. He often prompted conversations with philosophical discussions, pondering life's mysteries. That day was a little different. There was a sadness hanging onto his words.

"Why do you think you did it?" The girl interrupted the silence.

"Hmm?" he knew what she was asking, but he'd make her say it. That was his expectation. Say what you really mean.

It was minutes before she spoke again. "When you tried killing yourself." 

"I was really tired, I wanted to sleep." He offered, aloofly.

She stared at her screen, shaking her head. "You know that isn't why."

"Have you ever played a video game?" He gave into the back and forth. She wouldn't let it go. She never let anything go. "You know when you finish all the levels, and you can still keep playing the game, but there are no goals left to achieve? You just keep wandering around and finding little side quests, but the story isn't going to evolve further. At some point, you get tired of doing that and want to turn the game off and stop playing."

"Why not play another video game, then?"

"Because it was my favourite video game and I keep wanting to go back to it to experience it for the first time, but I can't. The other video games just don't measure up and I always want to go back to that one."

She contemplated this, and part of her understood. Who was she to dictate what made life worth living? Still, she cared for her friend. "Could you do me a favour?" She asked. "I want you to get better, but if you can't, could you at least tell your family I exist so I don't wonder where you've gone for months and never find out what happened?"

He didn't give her that favour. Four months after he died, she came across his obituary. She had missed the funeral. Nearly ten months prior, he had started to push her away from their friendship. The conversation wasn't exciting anymore, he had grown tired of her usual complaints. Her husband was annoying her, people were generally stupid, work was overwhelming. None of it was relevant to him and he didn't want her negativity around him those days. She worked to give him the space he asked for, reaching out only a few times a month. After some time had passed and where no response was received, she stopped checking in on him. One day, she told herself, they would talk again on a daily basis like they had used to. It was just a crossroads for now.

Yet, still, the thought had crossed her mind. Was he isolating himself because his mental health had taken a turn for the worse? In one of the few answered texts she sent, she expressed worry for his wellbeing. He confirmed he was still busy living, and proceeded to ignore her friendlier greetings.

It is difficult to piece together those last moments. Why did he travel back to his home country? What prompted him to plan his exit? How long would it have taken for anyone to know he was there? What were his final thoughts?

Did he know she loved him? Platonic intimacy, she called it. Some kind of kindred spirit. She wouldn't find a friendship like his again, not for fifty lifetimes. At some point, she wondered if they could be romantically entwined, but she became glad for the lack of complexity to their part in each other's lives. She could express the ugly sides of herself to him without fear of a loss of attraction. They could share their emotions without feeling responsible for fixing the other. person His rigid lifestyle wouldn't interfere with her lackadaisical one. They didn't have to meet each other's difficult family members. They would grow old together, as friends, neighbours, across the hall in a senior's lodge, like they had once spoken about.

Except now, she will grow old alone, without her best friend across the hall.