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"One thing was for sure. I had to get off the airplane." I once heard about how most people die in their sleep. It's like they go peacefully, with no struggle. I wasn't one of these people who died in their sleep; my life had been full of struggle and controversy since the day I was born, and it looked like it would continue that way until my last day on Earth. Sadly for me, though, death never came knocking at my door; instead, it belonged to someone else entirely. My roommate woke me up screaming bloody murder when she found me nearly lifeless on the floor beside her bed—a victim of a near-accident as a result of our drunken party from earlier that night. "Babe! Oh my God, are you all right?!" she cried. Her name was Megan, and she was the only one who had stayed in our apartment after the party. My throat felt raw and dry, but I croaked out a short reply. "Yeah... I'll be fine... I'm sorry." She grabbed my hand to help me up—I could barely stand on my own two feet. "No, I'm sorry!" she exclaimed. "This is all my fault! I told you not to drink so much." My head throbbed painfully at the sound of her voice; it was like her words were being pounded in by a hammer over and over again. "You said you weren't going to!" she continued. "I know... I'm sorry." She helped me back to my bed and tucked me in. Her touch was gentle, but when she moved her hand away, my skin stung from the shock of the cold air that rushed in where her warmth had been. She sat on the edge of my bed and bit her lip nervously. I knew what she wanted to say; we'd been talking about it for a while now. "Babe, we need to talk," she said. "You know what this is. You know what you have to do." I knew exactly what she was talking about. We'd been together for over a year, and in that time I'd slowly slipped away from her. Lately, it seemed like every conversation we had revolved around her trying to convince me of something—usually of the fact that we needed to be together, or else it might kill her. "It's not you, babe," I said. It came out as more of a groan than actual words; my throat ached and each syllable felt like a struggle to push past where it had been lodged for hours. "I love you. You know that. I know you do." "But, baby—" "Megan, listen," I said. I didn't want to fight with her. The last thing I wanted was to turn into the new version of me that existed in my own head; the one that seemed to be stuck in some kind of surreal purgatory yearning for death. That way, at least she could move on and find happiness with somebody else. "I'm not going," I said calmly and honestly. "You can't make me." "You have no choice," she said with a small pout on her face. cfa1e77820
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