To John, love Alice

Today I woke at to the sound of the cat scratching on the window. As I walked over to let it in, it suddenly vanished. I figured I might as well get up since I was already awake. I went to the kitchen, pulled out the coffee beans, and started the grinder. The streets outside were eerily empty. Quiet. Still. The fog lay thick over the city like a blanket.

Earlier that week, a big event had taken place in the nearby park—some kind of competition, with local vendors and activities taking advantage of the crowds. I’d stopped by for about ten minutes, but the noise and movement overwhelmed me. Since then, I hadn’t seen a single person outside—except for the cat, if that counts. It kept its distance, only appearing to scratch at the window before running away again.

About four weeks ago, I had an accident and broke my leg. I’d been hobbling around the apartment ever since. But today, I was expecting a visitor—my childhood friend John, who was in town and coming by for coffee.

John had dark brown, wispy hair and icy blue eyes. When we were kids, we did everything together—riding bikes, playing outside, swimming, boating. I often joined his family on trips to the archipelago, where we’d jump from the boat, build sandcastles and spend nights camping under the stars. Those were my favorite summer memories. Summers with John.

Knock knock.

When I opened the door, he smiled—but then frowned, eyeing my cast.

‘You’re such a klutz. When will you ever learn?’

‘Shut up.’

He hugged me. I heard a car door close a bit down the street, and a girl stepped out.

‘Hi!’ she called, smiling brightly.

He introduced us. Her name was Rose. They had met six weeks ago in Bali. She was stunning—dimples, big brown eyes, and sun-kissed wavy hair. My heart nearly stopped. I wanted to tell them to leave, but I didn’t. I welcomed them in and asked how their trip had been.

John teased me about the cake being dry, and Rose defended me. ‘That’s so mean—she’s been in an accident!’ As if that had anything to do with it. If she’d known us, she would’ve known John likes his cake a bit dry.

Eventually, it was time for them to leave. John pulled me into the living room.

‘Sorry for dragging her along,’ he said.

‘It’s fine. Of course.' I mean, it’s only been three years since we last saw each-other, I thought to myself.

‘It’s just nice to meet your new girlfriend.’

‘She’s not my girlfriend. We’re just friends.’

‘Oh?’ I asked, heart suddenly pounding.

‘Yeah, we just met. It’s... new.’

‘I see.’ I felt foolish. I should know, he would never see me that way. I'm just his friend and always will be.

He looked at me and smiled.

‘What?’

He laughed softly. ‘I’ve missed you.’

There was a moment of silence. I thought maybe—at least it felt like it for a moment that maybe,—he’d kiss me. But then Rose stepped back into the room, asking if they needed to get going.

Part II

My whole life had been a competition—get the best grades, go to the best school, wear the right brands. All for someone’s approval. But whose? John’s? My parents’? My own? I wasn’t sure anymore. I'm 24 years old. Who do I have to impress? I didn’t have John—and maybe I never truly did. He was always elusive, free like the wind on a summer's day.

He’d dropped out of college to travel the world, and in a way I’d been jealous—because I never dared to do the same. You never really knew where John was or who he was with. It was like trying to catch a wave—just when you reached it, it was gone. As a kid I had always fantasised that John and I would marry one day and our parent used say so too. Our parents were best friends from the start, so we had basically always been in each others lives.

Part III

I look down on my hand. The golden ring on my finger is shimmering, but it's a bit dirty as well on the edges. I completely zone out from the meeting, like usually. By the end of the day I pack up my things and begin to wander towards the door. My feet are warm and uncomfortable from wearing heals all day and I can't wait to come home and lie down in the couch. But in a way it feels a bit lonely. I have my husband of course, but he wont be home for another week. He spends most his time working and going on business-trips. When he is home, he's never really present and he always seem elsewhere in his mind. One time I told him I'm not in love with him anymore and he just nodded his head and and said 'I'm a bit busy, sweetheart'

Arriving home I took out a glas from the display cabinet and poured up some wine, when I heared a knock on the door.

I went to open the door and before me is John, he's in a grey hoodie and worn-out sweats. He looks a bit ragged, but he smiles, and his smile is one of the most beautiful smiles I've ever seen.

'I'm going on a trip. To Mexico. Are you coming?' he asks out of nowhere.

I Just stare at him. 'What do you mean Mexico? Are you serious?'

‘Yes! I am! Aren't you? Aren’t you restless?’ he asks. I got you text and it sure do seems like you need a change of scenery.'

'Okey. Yeah, it's been a bit flat lately but, I can't just leave. I'm married, you know. And I have to work'

‘Do you really want to live your life like this? Safe. Perfect. Don’t you want to live a little? You’ve never taken a risk. Always the safe path. Anyway, I’ve got two tickets to Mexico. If you change your mind, meet me at the airport at 6.’

I show up. I don't really know why, but somehow I felt like I had to. But soon I got the feeling that something wasn't quite right.

Later that day, John bought drugs in some shady back alley and then he got high. Then came the truth—he was in debt, and not to the kind of people you ignore. He looked me in the eyes and made me feel like I had to help him. So I paid. I don’t even know why. He knew I had quite a lot of money, since I have been saving since collage.

I then discovered my wallet and passport were stolen too, like the universe was joining in. And as if that wasn’t enough, I got a call—my dad was sick. Everything crumbled all at once.

John spiraled. He said I only have myself to blame. He said I didn't care about him and accused me of always judging him.

"Does our friendship mean nothing to you?" I snapped, my voice shaking.

"I regret coming here. The only reason you wanted me was to clean up your mess. I meant nothing to you, did I? You vanish for four years and just... show up? You didn’t even ask how I’ve been. You’ve changed."

He looked at me, that same crooked half-smile masking something hollow.

“At least one of us has,” he said, almost like a dare.

“No, John. You haven’t. You’re still running—from everything. You never stop. You never face anything head-on. Look at yourself. Is this the life you want? Just floating, day to day, with no direction?"

I couldn’t do it anymore. I gave him one last look—cold, final—and walked out.

I ended up in a bar, numb, angry, lost. That’s where I met a few people who invited me to drive up to a mountain. I didn’t even hesitate.

The view took my breath away. I felt so far from everything, there was no past or future, just the present.

We sat in silence for a bit before someone asked, “Why did you come with him?”

I stared out into the distance. “I don’t know,” I admitted. “I think I was looking for something. I’ve spent my whole life chasing goals—good grades, the right job, the perfect life. I ticked every box. And still, I felt... empty. I thought coming here would fix that. But now I’ve been robbed, humiliated, and I’ve lost my best friend.”

“What do you want, then?”

“I don’t know,” I whispered.

“Then maybe it’s time to find out.”

That hit me hard. I didn’t know who I was anymore. Or what I wanted. But maybe it was okay not to know.

Later that night, they invited me to a festival. I said yes.

I thought of John for a moment—felt a flicker of guilt—but let it pass.

At the festival, for the first time in a long while, I had fun. And that’s where I met Anthony.

He was working on volunteer projects and taking time off to travel. He had dark hair, a strong jawline, and eyes that felt like they could see right thru me.

We didn’t talk much at first, but our eyes kept meeting. There was something so grounded about him. He felt like a place to rest.

After the festival, we walked together. He asked where I was from, what brought me here. We sat on a big rock and just talked—for hours.

And at some point, he smiled and said, “Everything’s going to be okay.”

And I believed it. He felt warm and comforting. I looked into his eyes and felt for the first time that I wanted something for myself.

That was until I woke up and went back to the apartment. The hallway was quiet, too quiet. I remember thinking something felt off. The kind of silence that isn't peace, but warning. The air was thick, heavy. As I turned the key and opened the door, something in me braced before I even knew why.

Then I saw him.

John.

He was on the floor—on his side, legs awkwardly bent, like he'd just collapsed mid-thought. His hoodie had slipped off one shoulder. His arm lay outstretched, and in it, a needle. His skin was pale. Almost bluish.

I froze.

Time fractured. The room felt both distant and too close. My heartbeat became deafening.

“No,” I whispered. “No no no no no.”

I dropped my bag. My knees hit the floor beside him. My hands shook as I reached for his pulse, hoping—begging—that I was wrong.

But I wasn’t.

His body was stiff. Cold.

I called the police with trembling fingers, my voice barely working. The words came out jumbled. “My friend—he’s not—he’s not breathing—please come—please—”

And then I tried. I tried to bring him back. Pressed down on his chest, again and again, counting in my head like they taught us in school. But it felt pointless. Mechanical. I was crying, choking on sobs and disbelief, pushing against a body that wasn’t coming back.

Somewhere in the middle of it, I stopped. Just held his hand. Whispered his name.

“Why, John…?”

The paramedics arrived. I watched them wheel his body away like a scene in a movie. None of it felt real.

Later that day, as I was packing up my things, I saw John's bag lying on the floor and I could see a passport peeping out from it. He had taken both my passport and my wallet.

I called Anthony. I didn’t even know what I said—just that he came. He picked me up in his old truck, no questions asked. I crawled into the passenger seat and cried until I couldn’t breathe. He didn’t say anything, just rested his hand gently on mine.

The sky was gray. The air was heavy. And the world, somehow, had changed forever. Maybe I didn't know him enough... I thought I did, but realised there were things I never noticed. The truth is I didn't know him. I didn't know what he was thinking or feeling. And he was right, I was judging him. I was always questioning his choices, but I never asked why he did the things he did. I did admire him, in a way and I regret not ever telling him. I regret not telling him how I felt, but that was my burden. He was brave and courageous and free, despite everything that happend. I wish I would have taken the time to really know him, not just the idea of him. But I am learning who I am. It just took me 26 years, and I'm still just scratching on the surface, but it is a start.