But for Ella, I’ll find the pieces. Part of me died with them, but the rest belongs toher.
The Weight of Loss
1 Year Later
Violet
The walls of my childhood home feel too small and almost suffocating. Everything looks the same, but none of it feels like home anymore. The house smells like Mom’s perfume, but she isn’t here to wear it anymore.
I sit at the kitchen table, staring at the unopened mail—piles of it. I tell myself I’ll open it after my coffee, but I know that's a lie. Every envelope feels like a dare I’m too tired to take. Bills. Condolences. Legal notices. One from the bank, right on top. I don’t need to open it to know what it says. I can’t afford to keep this house, and soon the bank will take it back. This home was their life’s work they built for us, and now it’s slipping away, no matter how hard I fight it.
The life insurance money ran out months ago. I stretched it as far as I could — skipped meals, paid bills late, smiled through the lies so Ella wouldn’t worry. But pretending doesn’t stop the bank notices.
My job at the vet clinic is the only reason we’re keeping our heads above water. Dr. Martinez knew my dad, and when she heard what happened, she offered me a job before I could even ask. “Family comes first,” she told me. And she meant it.
The work isn’t glamorous — answering phones, cleaning kennels, managing appointments — but it’s steady, and the hours mean I can be there when Ella needs me. That kind of grace is rare.
I take a sip of cold coffee, and my mind starts to wander. A year has crawled by, though sometimes it feels like a lifetime pressed into a single night. The knock on my dorm door still echoes like it just happened. It’s been a year since everything cracked apart in an instant.
The seasons changed, but I barely noticed them—winter blurred into spring, spring to summer, and back into fall again, and nothing felt different. Holidays passed like static,while birthdays came and went without candles or celebration. Time stopped meaning anything after that day.
I still remember sitting in that hospital waiting room. The smell of antiseptic clings to my clothes, and the sound of some distant machine beeping in rhythm with my heart. I must’ve prayed to every God I didn’t believe in, begging for something—anything—to undo it. But the world kept moving forward.
Now it’s just me and Ella, measuring life in small moments: hospital checkups, specialist followups, and therapy appointments. The days don’t feel like days anymore, just time passing, whether I’m ready or not.
Ella missed nearly half a year of school, and even now, catching up has been a battle. Her teachers are understanding and patient because, before the accident, she was at the top of her class, but the gaps in her learning frustrate her. I try to remind her she’s doing her best, but I know how much she hates feeling behind and out of control. At least she has Sam.
Sam came into her life like she’d been there all along — small but fierce, all freckles and sharp opinions. She walks Ella to class and waits outside the bathrooms when Ella gets overwhelmed. Sam sits with her at lunch, doing whatever Ella needs without showing her pity. She just shows up. Every day. I owe that girl more than I could ever repay.
The scars on Ella’s skin are fading, but the ones I can’t see are much worse. She can’t stand being in cars. The first time I drove her anywhere, she cried the entire time. Now, she goes quiet, and her seatbelt pulls so tight it creaks, while her eyes lock straight ahead. I keep the radio low and talk about nothing — the weather, or the grocery list, or a stray cat I saw on the porch — anything to fill the silence. Sometimes it helps. Sometimes it doesn’t. The accident never ended for her; it just changed shape.
The nightmares come in waves, and they’re nearly every night. Some are quiet — just the sound of her turning, tangled in her sheets, while she’s caught somewhere between a dream and a memory. Other nights, they hit like a storm. She wakes screaming, drenched in sweat, and gasping for air.
It’s always the same dream; the crash, the wreckage, and the moment she realized Mom and Dad weren’t moving.
I rub my temples, forcing myself to breathe, and grounding myself in the moment. Right now, I need to call the realtor, start packing, and find an apartment we can afford. Every time I picture boxing Mom’s dishes or Dad’s old records, it feels like tearing pieces of them away. I’m trapped in my grief, unable to move forward.
My phone buzzes, and a message from Cami lights up the screen.
Cami:You breathing, babe?
I smile faintly and reply,
Me:Barely. Just another day of pretending I’m fine.
Cami:That’s my overachiever. We should meet up this weekend.
She’s back in New York City with her business degree and a party planning job, living the life she was born into. She forced me to stay in touch even when I didn't have the energy. She keeps conversation when I can't find anything to say, whether it’s about skyscrapers and deadlines, or about her new boyfriend who probably wears cologne worth more than my rent. She asks about Ella every time. She makes me laugh when I need it most.
We’re in different worlds now, but somehow, she’s still one of my best friends.
I set the phone down and rub my eyes, staring into the quiet. The house hums faintly, the fridge clicking on in the background, and the air thick with the kind of silence that makes you hold your breath.
Then I hear it — that sharp cry. My chair scrapes, and I run the hall. The sound of my feet against the hallway feels too loud and too slow. By the time I reach her room, she’s already fighting the blankets. Her face twists in terror, while her lips move around words that don’t make sense.
“Ella, hey.” My voice trembles as I kneel beside the bed, reaching for her hand. “It’s okay. You’re safe. I’m right here.”
Her skin is clammy, her fingers cold and rigid around mine. “I couldn’t—” Her voice breaks into a sob. “I couldn’t wake them up.”
