This must a joke—a sick twisted joke, I repeated in my head.  Everything had a touch of grey added to the normal color.  The sky contained heather grey cotton balls.  The phone was cold on my cheek, and it suddenly grew heavy.  A ringing crammed into my ears with questions ranging from “Why?” and “How?”  I lay on the cold floor in the corner.  People were trying to soothe my hysteric fit, but they didn’t know how to solve the problem.  Imagine a sixteen-year-old teen, acting like a six-year-old child throwing a tantrum because her mother won’t buy a candy bar.  I could only muster, “She’s dead. Dead.” Dead.

I had a best friend, Evana, who had it all.  She was intelligent and everyone loved her.  Her natural platinum hair that felt like smooth silk fell perfectly to her hips, and her emerald eyes sparkled.  On social media at the age of fourteen, we had met and arranged to meet each other in person when we were fifteen since we lived closer to each other than we thought.  Her quirky, bubbly behavior was the first characteristic I observed about her, besides her intriguing hair and eyes.  As we spoke, I learned that she was a varsity cheerleader, like me, and she loved music and art.  Seeming surreal, we were so similar.

Days, weeks, and then months passed, and we were inseparable. Because we lived far away from each other, it was hard to see each other in person, but we still spoke every day.  As our friendship strengthened, our conversations became more personal and emotional.  We learned another similarity between us: depression.  Divorce, drug abuse, and razor blades scarred our pasts.  Sometimes, during our conversations, Evana would make comments that seemed controversial, such as, “It’s easy to end everything,” she’d hint, or she’d wonder, “I wonder what it’d be like to just disappear.“  We knew we both struggled with depression, so we decided to help each other overcome the gloomy desperation.  At the end of every day, we conducted our own counseling sessions over Skype and discussed about what made us happy or upset that day.  They progressively made a positive difference in our lives because before we met, everything was always bottled up inside.  We used each other to keep ourselves alive.

The school year and homework didn’t care about what we had to do at night, so sometimes we’d go a day or two without speaking to each other.  Eventually, one or two days turned into four or five days, and sometimes, even weeks.  Letting the other know that she was still thinking about the other despite our other responsibilities, a text was shot to the other person.  Late one night, I sent a text to Evana.

“I’m sorry it’s been awhile,” I began.  “You’re probably asleep, but I still have some homework, and I was just thinking about you.  I love you.”  I didn’t get a response which I didn’t expect one because it was late on a school night.  I lay my phone down after completing my homework, turned out the light, and went to bed just like I did every other night. 

The next day, I received the phone call that changed my life in many ways, which I refer to as “the accident.”  My best friend whom I tried to rescue from her pit of sadness had decided to disappear just like she had spoken to me about.  After her suicide, I had been more depressed for months.  Involved in drugs and self-harm once again consumed my being--more than I ever had been before the accident.  I felt as if the blame should be put on me because I knew how she felt.  I didn’t put forth enough effort to save her.  I failed.

A small ceremony for her death was an eye-opening experience.  The only people who attended were her dad, younger brother and sister, the priest, and me.  Seeing her pale, lifeless face made me realize the true worth of life.  The capability of ending one’s life is so easy and can happen so fast; consequently, I have wanted to help people ever since that day of mourning her death and watching her being lowered six feet into the earth.

As time went on during my coping process, I used this experience to better myself and let the accident open up my eyes to the reality of suicide and depression.  Since the accident, I have learned to not worry about myself but make an effort to help others no matter the situation.  The term “don’t judge a book by its cover” never had stronger meaning to me until now because people can hide the way he or she feels despite his or her suffering, for I wouldn’t have expected Evana to be depressed.  I also know now that sometimes the best medicine for someone who is depressed is to be a listener opposed to a speaker.  If someone seems to be struggling with depression, don’t be afraid to speak up and ask if he or she is okay.  Who knows?  It could save someone’s life.