The screen of Dana’s laptop flickers. First light. Then dark. Then light. Before my heart can begin to race, before my mind goes back to that moment, it flickers one more time, staying permanently lit. It’s the garage. The source of my nightmares. And then Christa… alive, but unwell. She sits down on what I assume is the stool, her dark hair (like mine) in a mess, knotted on top of her head. Her eyes, ocean blue (like mine) are red, raw, tired. Her cheeks are pink, wet with tears, tears she kept hidden from me.

But even in this state, even in her darkest moment, she’s still my sister. My blood. My inhale is sharp, shaky, and I feel my parents presence behind me as I fight back the urge to cry, to reach out with my fingertips, feel the glass of the screen, our barrier, and touch her. As if she were real. As if she were alive.

“Christa,” my mom whispers, her hand on my shoulder, the first time she’s touched me since… since Christa.

My sister looks up, her eyes locked on the camera. She smiles, and I wonder if she knew then what she was about to do, exactly how she was about to do it. She says, her voice nothing but a distant memory now, “Hey, Noah. You’re probably wondering why I left you a video and gave Mom and Dad a letter. The truth is, I don’t know. I just had this feeling in my gut that a letter wouldn’t cut it. Not with you: my best friend. My brother.” Her voice cracks, and my throat closes, and I let the tears fall, but hold in my cry. “I knew that a letter wouldn’t be enough. That you’d want to see me. One last time. That you’d want to hear my voice. One last time. That you’d want to hear that voice when it gives you reasons. Answers.” She wipes a tear with the back of her hand, her lips turning down, down, down until she sniffs back the hurt, the pain of what she’s about to tell me. “The truth is, there is no reason, Noah. There are no answers. There is no when. Or how. Or why. There is only darkness.

“For years, I’ve tried. For years, I’ve lied. For years, you were the only one who noticed. But when you asked me what was wrong or what happened…” She covers her mouth with the back of her hand, her shoulders shaking with her sobs, and I don’t want to know what she has to say. Did I not respond? Was I not aware enough? What did I do? Why, Christa, why? “I didn’t have the words to explain how I felt. I only had tears, tears I hid from you and everyone else because it was easier than justifying this... this darkness that lives and breathes inside me, in the walls of my heart and in the deepest corners of my soul, and I can’t shake it…” Her gaze lowers as she wipes more of her tears, and I take the time to do the same, my heavy heart pound, pound, pounding against my ribs.

When she looks back up, her face nothing but misery, she says, a slight laugh bubbling out of her, “I had so many things that I wanted to say and now... I guess I just want you to know that I’m proud of you. I’ll always be proud of you. And the phone calls tonight… they weren’t a cry for help. There was nothing you could’ve done. I simply wanted to see you. One last time. Hear your voice… one last time… Noah…” My name is nothing but a sob. “I feel like I can’t breathe and I know it’s my fault. I know if I just said or did something, that you would save me... that you would make me feel like my darkness matters, but I can’t. I just can’t.” She lets out a sob so heartbreaking, I feel the crack right through my chest. “Please don’t let this ruin you. Don’t let it break you like it’s broken me.” She shakes her head. “God, I’m so tired. I’m so tired of walking blind through the darkness. I’m tired of pretending. I’m tired of the never-ending pain in my chest and the tears in my eyes and I’m tired of trying to come up with a way to reach out, to hold on to someone or something because I feel like I’m drowning and I’m dying and the moments I feel most alive are when I’m closest to death.” She stops there, just like my heart, and I reach for my mother’s hand, hold it close to my chest, pray that the connection will revive it. “This is not your fault, Noah, please please please know that. This is no one’s fault.” She exhales softly. “It just... is.” 

The talking ends, but the video doesn’t and please, please, please don’t show what she’s about to do. Please don’t show her setting up the thing that will kill her.

Christa’s gaze drops, her heavy breathing heard through the speakers… an eternity passes, and then her shoulders rise, her breathing steadies, and she looks up at the screen, her eyes clear, but lost.

God, she was so lost.

“Hey,” she says softly. So softly. “Do you remember when we were little, and I used to tuck you in at night? Remember how I’d stop at your door… and I’d say, ‘I love you, Noah.’… do you remember what you’d say back? You’d say…”

“I love you more,” I whisper through my heartache.

Christa smiles, as if she can hear me. “And I’d smile, tell you, ‘That’s impossible.’…and you would always say back…”

I choke on my words. “It’s possible… and it’s true.”

“God, Noah,” Christa cries. “I’m going to miss you the most. And you can think of me as stupid for what I’m about to do, you can think of me as selfish, but please... please don’t ever stop loving me more. Please remember me as your big sister… standing at your doorway,… telling you I love you.”