A strong act by a strong person

Olya took her own life at the end of May, right before exams—on the twenty-first—and almost immediately, they canceled them for us.

No one said it out loud (after all, we were expected to perform the tragedy), but deep down, we were relieved. Maybe we were even grateful for the gift she unknowingly gave us. We didn’t care how it happened or why. The news was met with the same calm indifference as if someone had announced we’d have seven classes tomorrow instead of six. A whisper passed through the desks—and that was it. It felt inevitable, unspoken, like something no one expected, yet everyone had been prepared for.

I think it had to do with how distant we were. None of us were close to her, and even as her deskmate, I couldn’t say more than a few words about what Olya was like before she died. Sure, we’d known each other since childhood—our mothers used to talk often—but during the school day, we only ever exchanged phrases like, “Let me copy,” or “Can you pass the pencil?”

I was afraid of her. Not of her, exactly, but of what being her friend might’ve cost me. She was often picked on. And while I never defended her—too afraid I’d become the next target—I liked to think I disagreed, silently, with the mockery.

But now, I think I was just like the rest of them.

As our physics teacher once said, “Inaction is still an action. And sometimes, by human standards, the worst one.”

After class, we were told to stay behind. But before we could trade more than a couple words about what had happened, our homeroom teacher appeared in the doorway. She looked scattered, unusually so—her red hair was loose, her face bare without makeup. I guess, after all, she still hadn’t come down from that Saturday night when Olya’s mother called her.

“Please be quiet, everyone,” she said. “Settle down. The reason I kept you behind… it has nothing to do with recent tragic events.” She pulled a stack of single sheets from her folder. “I just want to hear your thoughts. In your opinion—is suicide a strong act of a weak person, or a weak act of a strong one? Vika, could you pass these out, please?”

The girl in the front row stood up and did as she was told. I looked at her nervously as she leaned down to hand me a sheet, but she didn’t even glance my way.

No one said a word. No one picked up their pens.

I kept my gaze fixed on the board, avoiding the empty space beside me. And that was when the reality of it finally sank in—what had happened. The emptiness at my side slipped quietly into my chest.

No one would let me copy their answers anymore.

No one would come to class before everyone else.

No one would offer me homemade cookies without expecting a thank you.

No one would sit beside me again…

“Of course it’s a strong act,” said Liza, lifting her chin in that usual way. She sounded like she’d forgotten what we were even talking about—like this was just another class discussion. “If a person doesn’t change anything about their life or themselves, knowing what thoughts are circling in their head—that’s weakness. But to go through with it, to actually do it with your own hands—that takes strength.”

“I agree,” added her friend.

The others nodded quickly, wanting to be done with the conversation and the discomfort it stirred. I glanced at the chair with “Die, fucking bitch” scratched onto it. I knew who had written it, but when Olya asked me about it, I’d just muttered— I don’t know.

“I don’t think so,” I said suddenly, barely above a whisper. My voice caught.

“What do you mean?”

I bit my lip.

“She was different. Not like you. Not like us. Olya was the kindest person ever, and—”

“We’re not talking about Olya, not specifically, we’re just—”

“You always hurt her!” I snapped. Anger burst from a place I didn’t know I had—maybe anger not at them, rather at myself most of all. “And she fought against it all. Against all of you. Until… until you broke her.”

“So you think it was a weak act from a strong person?” Liza asked, coolly. Her eyes flickered toward the chair too—toward the handwriting she recognized as her own.

I knew.

She knew.

Everyone knew.

And still, they pretended none of it happened. That it didn’t concern them. That it wasn’t theirs to carry.

They turned away.

Ran.

Shut their eyes; their doors; their blinds.

The question lingered in the air, heavy. I almost backed down. But the answer came to me like it had always been there.

I stood up, threw my backpack over my shoulder, and said clearly:

“No. It was a strong act from a strong person.”

And, without waiting for the teacher to stop me, I walked out of the classroom.

I have to go home. I have to see her. I need to apologize, — ran through my mind. Then I remembered—there was no one left to apologize to.

So I sat on the windowsill—the one she always sat on. Her presence clung to the space so tightly, for a second I thought she might still be there, just behind me.

Outside, the world was blooming. Spring was in its full glory. Life stretched out ahead of us—wild, strange, terrifying, beautiful and cruel—waiting for all of us. All but the one who loved it most. Behind me, a cleaner moved around quietly.

For a while, I just sat in silence. It felt good—to let it hold me, squeeze my insides until it hurt. And then, like lightning, a strange, stupid idea struck me. I jumped up and ran to the cleaner.

“Can I borrow your cloth for a moment, please?”

She looked puzzled, but anyway nodded in agreement.

I soaked it and ran downstairs—toward the row of lockers.

Hers was easy to find. Covered in words no one should ever read. See. Feel.

It took me more than fifteen minutes to scrub it all off. But I liked the way it felt—like maybe I was doing something right at last. Like I didn’t just clean the locker but my hands too, hands that I sensed were somehow covered in her blood.

Inaction is the worst action, after all, — yet on every force, every move, there is a possible opposite one.

The late one,

but the right one.

And when I was done, I pulled a marker from my pencil case and wrote, with a shaky hand:

“A strong act by a strong person.”