Bash: Just didn’t hear from her after I left her yesterday and all of today. Wanted to make sure she was good
Three bubbles appear pretty quickly.
Sandro: Want me to ask Lani?
Bash: Please
It feels like forever before I hear back from him.
Sandro: She said Lydia didn’t come back to the dorm last night. They’ve been out looking for her and calling her all day
My heart drops. I hate this feeling. I hate worrying. I hate not having any control here. I have no idea what’s happening or if she’s okay, and my mind won’t stop going to all the worst possibilities.
Bash: Can you send me Lani’s number so I can meet up with them
He sends it to me, and I immediately click on it and hit call.
“Hello?” a little voice asks on the other end, confused and also kinda out of breath.
“Um, hey, Lani. It’s Bash.”
“Bash! Hey. Have you talked to Lydia?”
I shake my head even though she can’t see. It’s not for her; it’s for the disappointment. “No,” I say, and I know my voice gives away my nerves, but I can’t even care right now. “Where are y’all?”
Once she tells me, I hang up, grab my keys, and rush out of my dorm building.
As soon as I hit the front seat of my car and press the push start, my phone buzzes in the seat beside me. I grab it and see Lydia’s name pop up. I let out the breath I didn’t realize I was holding, and then my heart sinks again when I read her text.
Lydia: I relapsed…please don’t hate me
I throw my head back on my seat, pinching the bridge of my nose, wishing I could erase that message from ever existing.
I need to know where she is. I need to be wherever she is. I need…I don’t know what I need. It’s not about what I need. I just need to go be whateversheneeds.
Bash: Where are you
She texts back a barely coherent location that I piece together is a dorm building on the other side of campus…near where the recovery group meets…where it met last night.
What could have happened between the time I left her and today?
I know she was having a bad day, but for it to go this far…
I quickly call Lani and tell them what I know and ask them to give me a moment with her. She tells me that’s probably best, and to text her when and where they can meet up with us, and to tell Lydia they’re here, however she needs them to be.
When I pull up to the parking lot near the building, I see her sitting against the brick wall, head tucked between her knees, arms wrapped around her like that’ll protect her from all the bad in the world. My heart starts running to her before I’m even out of the car.
When I walk up to her, I don’t touch her, don’t move her. I just sit down next to her, resting my arms on my knees.
“Hey,” I say, gently trying to pull her attention up to me.
She slowly raises her head, and I see the tears running down her cheeks. For a moment, all I can see is the little girl version of her hiding behind the woman in front of me, waiting for someone to say it’s okay to come out. My thumbs brush the tears away, and she doesn’t flinch, doesn’t pull away, just stares up at me, helplessness in her eyes. I want to be able to take away the pain for her—the pain in her heart, and in her head.
“No one hates you,” I whisper to her since I know that’s the lie she’s telling herself right now—with me, with Lani and Simone, with her parents, with her therapist, with everyone who wants to see her happy and healthy and sober. “I don’t hate you…not today, not because of this…not ever.”
She laughs a kind of laugh that’s bitter and self-deprecating. “You should,” she says. “I gave you a speech about trying, and then I went and proved that I’m just a liar.”
I see the distress in her movements, in her tone, in her eyes.
