Stephanie died last night.


It was all I could think about all day. I went mechanically from class to class, ignoring the looks I got from people as I slumped around watching nothing but the floor. I paid no attention to the lectures given, the questions asked, the raised eyebrows, and the hiss of another student whose foot I accidentally stepped on.

It wasn’t as if I knew her well. We had a passing acquaintance. We had gone to a few of the same parties, I had bummed a cigarette off her once, and we were in the same English class junior year of high school. But this was two years later, and I didn’t know her. I still couldn’t get her face out of my head.

Stephanie, with her always immaculate hair; Stephanie with her red lips and green eyes and high cheekbones; Stephanie with her smiling glances; Stephanie with her wit, intelligence, and kindness; Stephanie with her bitten nails and hidden scars.

Stephanie with her sadness.

No one had noticed, and no one had cared. She had good grades and a sweet boyfriend and good friends. She was studying to be a doctor and always looked beautiful. No one had noticed the decline in her health, the way she stopped laughing, and the slight slump of her shoulders. No one had seen it until it was too late.

I thought of passing her in the quad, of nodding to her because she caught me looking, of smiling and saying “hello” when we stood in the same line separately. I hadn’t realized then that she was always alone. It hadn’t registered with me that this was different, that this was not how it was supposed to be.

Her best friend had given her space when she asked to be left alone. Her family thought all the time she spent in her bedroom was because she was studying diligently. They didn’t notice that she never went out on the weekends anymore. Her friends hadn’t realized that she stopped calling, that she stopped showing up to their movie nights and coffee nights and game nights. They hadn’t realized that she was different.

They hadn’t realized that she was disappearing.

Her grades didn’t slip and her smile didn’t go, but everything else disappeared. She started wearing her hair in ponytails because she had stopped washing. She stopped matching her belt to her shoes because she had stopped caring. She had stopped wearing green.

It all seems so obvious when you think back on it. And, really, no one should be surprised that she killed herself. But no one had noticed her hollowed cheeks and the bags under her eyes. No one had ever even asked her if she was okay.

And I only smiled at her out of obligation.

I slumped to my History class and sat myself down with a thump, ignoring the people who looked at me when I shut my eyes and my shoulders shook. People noticed me grieving for a girl I had barely known, a girl who I would have forgotten had she not gone to my college and passed me most days, but not one person had noticed Stephanie starving herself and not sleeping and not being happy. No one had noticed the light had gone out of her eyes, but people noticed me when I closed mine.

Really, Stephanie probably died months ago. She probably stayed alive for a few more months out of obligation. The same reason I smiled at her when she passed.

My chest shook with guilt and sobs that wanted to escape, but I knew that I didn’t deserve to cry. I didn’t know her. And I knew that I had no reason to be guilty, but I couldn’t help it. I was one of the people who saw her every day, acknowledged her every day, and I ignored everything.

No one is going to remember Stephanie’s good grades and the way she always seemed to be smiling. No one is going to remember that she loved the color green and hated wearing sandals. No one is going to remember that she never really wanted to be a doctor anyway, but she couldn’t get into veterinary school, so she settled. No one is going to remember that she was funny and kind and always helpful. Everyone is just going to remember that Stephanie died last night at her own hand. That Stephanie killed herself. That Stephanie wasn’t happy. That Stephanie obviously needed help.

Everyone will remember the things they should have seen before. No one is going to remember who Stephanie really was.

Stephanie died last night. It took that to make her alive to me.