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The bed was too big for Laila.
The comforter was swallowing her, two fluffy pillows unnecessary for only one girl, all the empty space screaming of what wasn’t there, of who wasn’t there, and Laila couldn’t believe it’s been just two nights.
She still couldn’t believe that all of this was real in the first place.
Of course, when she got the news, even before the shock hit her, she just nodded, like yes, obviously, she was not supposed to be happy after all, it was perfectly normal that it happened to her. But that was only a moment, shorter than a blink of an eye, and paralyzing fear that turned her blood into ice claimed her right after that.
Tonight, she had opened the window, moonlight creeping into the room. She watched the eerie shades dance on the comforter, the night washing out all the colors, turning everything grey, invalidating everything the small apartment housed: colorful art on the walls, some of it hilariously bad; a knitted sweater, half-done and abandoned on the back of an armchair when a more important or more fascinating project came along; flowers growing in pots on the windowsill, starting to wither because Laila wasn’t the one who watered them, and she was never going to be.
She lifted her hand, moonlight crashing against it like waves of the sea, only without any sounds. She watched her skin, warm, veins with blood flowing underneath, still, despite everything. Why did she get to be alive? Who decided that? Was it all just a clusterfuck of life, putting the pieces together lackadaisically, or was this all a part of some cruel, horrible plan? Laila grabbed her wrist with her other hand, tightly squeezing, trying to block the flow of blood until her palm went numb, and she let go.
Was that how loss felt like? Did it make everybody hate their own beating heart so much they wished it to stop? How did people live through this? How did they handle funerals? How did they survive pitying eyes of others, who couldn’t even imagine how much they were hurting? How did they clear their apartments of things that were no longer needed? Things that were not going to be used anymore, ever, because the person who they belonged to was gone?
The instruments were the worst. A huge cello case was standing in the corner of the room, right next to the armchair, dozens of stickers decorating its surface, staring at Laila. There was a violin case, too, underneath the bed, always close. Laila didn’t dare to look at it, let alone touch it, but the knowledge of its presence almost immobilized her.
Laila curled up in bed, lifting her knees to her chest to hold onto them as another soundless scream tore through her body, making her eyes water, her head nearly bursting at the seams. There was no wind coming in through the open window, no breeze to soothe her pain, the middle of July bringing only balmy warmth and faraway noises of parties, music and happiness that Laila was no longer part of.
She was alone now.
She was alone in a world she couldn’t navigate, lost in her selfish grief, not good enough to feel all of this pain; after all, she was alive, and she should be grateful for that, because life was a fragile fucking gift, right? Tears were wetting Laila’s pillow as she cried, the tension leaving her body, slowly, inch by inch. The other side of the bed remained untouched, pristine, as if sacred, but in reality only a gritty reminder of a life that was already gone.
There was only one comforting thought Laila had: I will not be around for much longer, either. In yet another sleepless hour, pulling herself through the darkness of the night like she was swimming in the blackest waves of the ocean, Laila accepted that her life has ended, too.