1. The August night had already turned from purple to black as Ava and I walked down the torn-
up asphalt to the cemetery at the end of LaGrave Street. We weren't talking; when two people have
been friends for as long as the two of us had, there comes longer and longer periods of silence. We
knew each other so well, that I didn't feel like we needed to fill in the blanks.
It had been her idea to go to Pioneer Cemetery that night. We had been sitting sitting on the
couch in my living room watching reruns of Jersey Shore on MTV, probably falling asleep soon. It had
rained all day and we hadn't felt like going out and doing anything even after it let up, at least until she
suggested coming here.
“Still don't know why you want to do this,” I said, crossing my arms to shield my body from the
post-rain breeze. We used to come to the cemetery all the time, but its novelty had long since worn off.
When I first moved to this neighborhood on LaGrave in Paw Paw, Michigan, I was nine years old and
Ava had already been living here for a year. The first place she showed me was this tiny little
graveyard with headstones in it dating back to before the United States was even an official country.
“It reminds me of old times,” she said. She looked up at the sky, which made me look up, too. It
was indigo blue and twinkling with thousands of little stars. Seeing the great expanse of it made me
want to stretch my arms out and far as they'd go and lay in the middle of the street to take it all in, but I
didn't do that. Cheesy and overdramatic, that's what Ava would've said. But looking up there...that's the
way it made me feel; like a big, pulsing feeling in my chest was about to burst right through.
“Gonna miss these stars,” I said, and glanced over at her. At the end of the summer, we were
both moving away for college. I was going to Vassar with an academic scholarship and she was going
to Western Michigan, which wasn't far from where we lived.
“The stars are the same everywhere, Saige,” Ava said in a clipped tone.
I looked at the ground, down at my blue flip-flops faded white under the imprints of my feet. I
had worn them almost every day that summer. My mom told me that there was no way they were
coming with me to New York.
“Okay, fine,” I said, “but I'm going to miss you.”

2. I made it a point to look up at her and by doing that, will her to look back. But she wouldn't. She
kept staring straight ahead, the cemetery gates coming into view, walking slowly but with purpose.
“We've said that like, a thousand times,” she said, letting a smile play at the edge of her lips.
“Well, I just made it a thousand and one. I'm allowed to say it. I don't want to be without you all
the way in New York where I don't know anyone but my mom's friend's kids.” I sighed. “The only
possible outcome is that you come with me.”
“I can't,” she said, and then laughed. “We've talked about it so much.”
“It's coming up. It's all I ever think about,” I said. “Isn't it for you? I mean, you're moving away,
too. Anywhere is bigger than here.” Paw Paw was a place that had more gas stations than people and
the only attraction was a winery called St. Julian's that took over the whole town during September's
Wine and Harvest Festival. The houses on LaGrave were mostly all run down; mine and Ava's, 306 and
308, were the nicest ones on the block and that wasn't saying much.
“No, I haven't really been thinking about it,” she said just as we walked through the gates into
the cemetery. “Remember the first time we came here? You were so scared.”
“I'm scared now,” I said, hanging back as she walked forward confidently, finding her favorite
headstone right away. It was one so eroded from hundreds of years of weather that the epitaph was
nowhere near legible. “It weirds me out. I always feel like something is going to follow me home.”
“Like what, a demon?” she asked, widening her eyes for effect. She wiggled her fingers at me
and chased me when I ran away, making creepy noises louder than she should've been at that time of
night.
“Shut up, Ava,” I scolded, my voice a harsh whisper, but I had to laugh, too.
Her giggles died down and then she sat on the cool, wet grass with her legs crossed and her
back hunched forward. I leaned against a tall, pointed headstone that was newer than the rest and
watched her lay down in the exact position that the dusty remains of the corpse underneath her had also
been in at one point.
A car drove by and distracted my attention away from Ava. As I watched it, I recognized my

3. mom's van as she came home from her ex-husband's house, where she went to pick up my baby sister.
Not my real dad, but Rick, who was the father of my one-year-old half sister, Sydney. My dad died
when I was four. Mom got remarried when I was fourteen and divorced just last year. It wasn't a bad
split, but they were better apart. Even so, I missed having Sydney around all the time because of the
joint custody, and Ava was always there for me when I got upset about it.
“Mom and Syd just drove up,” I said, tempted to go back home. I hadn't seen my sister in a
week. But Ava wasn't moving, nor did she acknowledge what I had just said.
“Do you ever think about it?” Ava asked, staring up at the sky in the way that she had been
doing before.
I glanced back at my house, just a white nondescript two-story that I could see from the
cemetery if I squinted, and could just make out Mom lifting a sleeping Sydney out of the back of the
van. I smiled softly to myself and stood up straight, away from the headstone I had been leaning
against. I wanted to go home, but I didn't want to leave Ava there in the cemetery alone.
“Think about what?” I asked, knowing our minds were probably not in the same place.
“Dying,” she said simply.
My face scrunched up in confusion as I studied her lying there stretched out on the grave plot
with her hands resting behind her head to act as a pillow. “No,” I said, hearing the slight scathing tone
of my voice, “and don't you think saying that is a bit much for where you're laying right now?”
“Why do you think I'm thinking about it?” she snapped, sitting up.
“I don't know,” I murmured, turning away. “Can we go? I want to see Syd before Mom puts her
down.”
Ava sighed deeply but stood up from the ground. “Yeah, let's go home,” she said, and linked her
arm with mine on the way back to my house.
Two nights later, I was sitting on the floor in my attic bedroom when my cell phone rang and
Ava's mom's number lit up my screen. It wasn't unusual for her to call me to figure out where Ava was,

4. so I picked up without thinking anything was out of the ordinary, and then she told me what happened.
Ava killed herself. The night in the cemetery was the last time I ever saw her.
When I screamed, footsteps came pounding the stairs and my mom appeared in my doorway
with Sydney on her hip, asking what was wrong, and I told her as best as I could. Ava was dead. And
she did it to herself.
That night, I laid in my mom's bed but couldn't manage to fall asleep. I stared up at the ceiling
for hours with tears slipping down my temples, and then decided to just get up and go back to my room
where I felt the most comfortable. I picked Sydney up out of her crib and hugged her close, her sleepy
weight making me feel safer than I had since I heard the news, and carried her with me out of Mom's
room.
I flicked on my overhead light to its dimmest setting and absentmindedly pressed my lips to
Sydney's forehead as she rubbed her eyes. I didn't know what I was doing in the middle of the room
without a purpose at all, I just stood there and stared. None of this felt real. Just two nights ago, Ava
had been lying on her stomach on my bed, flipping through our senior year yearbook and reading
through all the messages people had written to me on the inside covers. She had teased me for being
too scared to ask Nick, the guy I'd been in love with since 7th
grade, to sign it, and I was laughing along
with her. That memory was so real to me that it seemed like I could grab onto it and hold tight, and if I
held to it tight enough she would still be here right now.
I didn't know what to do with myself. What were you supposed to do on the day that your best
friend kills herself? Eating felt wrong. Sleeping felt too casual, but staying awake was so hard. Doing
any mundane activity felt disrespectful because she wasn't there to do it with me.
I hugged Sydney close and sat down on the foot of my bed. I picked a photo album up from my
shelf full of them, knowing when I opened it that it was going to hurt, but I wanted to feel that. I
wanted that pain to validate that this was really happening. Because without proof, it felt like I was
living a nightmare that I could wake up from at any moment.
All my photo albums were the same. The pictures out of order, cut into weird shapes with

5. spaces missing in between in spots where I'd wanted to use the photo for something else. To stick on
the fridge or in my locker or to give to someone else, probably Ava. This book had a pink cover with
purple flowers, covered in a clear plastic sheet that was too big and coming off around the corners. It
was one of my older ones that was in the worst shape. Sydney was starting to fall back to sleep, so I
laid her down in the middle of my bed and opened the photo album on my lap, tracing the sharp corners
of the pages with the pad of my pointer finger as I looked at the photos inside.
The first one was of Ava on our first day of freshman year, and we both looked awful. Ava was
in her goth stage, which her mom wasn't technically allowing, so she was wearing skinny jeans and a
pink Aeropostale t-shirt, but with a clip-in black streak in her hair with extremely heavy, badly-drawn
eyeliner. She was slouching, a pained smile on her closed lips, her eyebrows raised in mock excitement
as she humored both of our moms with this picture. I didn't look much better standing next to her, my
arm slung around her shoulder and my braces glinting in the early morning sunlight. My hair was
pulled back in a ponytail that was way too tight, which gave me a sort of stretched, alien look, and the
crimping I had tried that morning only drew more attention to it.
I had been so afraid to start high school. Being around new people always made me nervous.
Ava was never one for emotions in herself or others, but she was always there for me when I got
anxious over things like that. That day, with the sun shining bright on our backs as we stepped out of
my mom's van, I was close to tears staring at the huge building in front of me. I was chewing the inside
of my cheek so vigorously that I was surprised I didn't go right through. As the van pulled away, I had
the urge to chase my mom down, climb back in, and ask her to take to me back to the middle school.
But while all those thoughts were rushing through my mind, I felt Ava's steady grip on my wrist. I had
looked over at her and she gave me an encouraging smile, and told me, “We got this.”
I looked up from the photo album and sucked in a deep breath, which was the only other sound
in the room besides Sydney's rhythmic breathing. Was Ava really dead? Looking down at the picture
from four years ago, she still seemed so alive. So here. That memory felt like yesterday. I could still
remember the stickiness of the air even though it was before 8am, the slide of the minivan door, and the

6. pull of the gum on the bottom of my flip-flop right before we walked through the high school doors for
the first time.
Dead seemed like such a strong word. But resting was a blatant lie. I looked over my shoulder.
Sydney was resting. Ava was gone.
Three hazy days passed. Hazy in both the literal and figurative sense; both outside and inside
my head was foggy. I hadn't had a clear thought since the night I didn't sleep, poring over all of those
old photos of Ava and me. My mom suggested going over to see Mrs. Lightwood or at least calling her,
but I couldn't make myself do either of those things. I could hardly eat, I didn't know what made her
think that I could work up the energy to see the person closest to my dead best friend.
On a Tuesday night that was as clear as the last one I spent with Ava, I laid out in the middle of
the driveway with my phone resting in my upward-facing palm. I stared at the stars and tried not to
even think any sentimental thoughts that Ava would hate. I clicked the power button my phone on and
off, on and off, over and over again and pressed my thumb over the fingerprint-sensor home button,
which lit up the whole screen. I went to my recent calls and clicked on the only contact that was in
there besides my mom's, and I put the phone on speaker and listened to it ring until Ava's voice was
right next to me.
Hey what's up, it's Ava... leave a message!
And the sounds of both of us laughing briefly before the recording was cut off with a long beep.
I hung up the phone out of pure surprise and sat up, breathing heavily and staring at the phone like it
was going to come alive in front of me. After a few long moments, I called the number back and
listened again.
Hey, what's up, it's Ava... leave a message!
For a second, all that was recorded was the sound of me breathing and the silence of not
knowing what to say to a voicemail that no one would ever hear. “This is weird...” I finally said.
“Listening to your...her...your voicemail, I don't know who I'm supposed to be talking to.” I hung up

7. again.
I laid there on the driveway as the night got colder and the cars came slower and less frequently.
Mom and Sydney had gone to bed a long time ago, and I was alone. No one was judging me, even
though it felt like that. I called her number again, if only just to listen to her outgoing message.
Hey what's up, it's Ava... leave a message!
“You really should've made that longer,” I said, right away this time. “I guess I'm going to
pretend I'm leaving you a real message. Well, I guess this is a real message. But that you'll actually
hear it.” I sat up from my laying position and crossed my legs, leaning forward with my elbows on my
knees. “I'm just sitting out here in the driveway. I've never done it alone, so it's kind of weird. But
hearing your voice on your thing made it seem like you were really here, which was nice. Not real, but
nice for a second.” I pressed the 'End Call' button on the screen and placed my phone facedown on the
concrete next to me. I sat there for a few more minutes not knowing what to think, and then stood up
and went inside. I got ready for bed and actually fell asleep when I laid down.
The first thing I did the next morning was call Ava's number. I heard the same outgoing
message, which I liked, and briefly wondered if it was unhealthy for me to be latching onto this. “Do
you think this is weird?” I asked the recording. “I guess I don't really care. It makes me feel better. And
nothing other than this has made me feel anything, really.” I stared up at my ceiling fan, trying to
follow a singular blade with just my eyes, going around in manic circles. “I don't even know why you
did it. No note. You didn't tell me. Ava...” I trailed off. “Was that night in the graveyard you telling
me? Because that was messed up if it was.” I pressed the 'End Call' button over and over, even though I
knew just once would do the job. I felt anger bubbling in my stomach for the first time as I thought
about what she did. Why didn't she ask for help? I could've done something. I didn't know what I
could've done, but anything would've been better than what became of it.
I called her back. “I don't know why you wouldn't tell me. Don't you know how much you hurt
me, Ava? Hurt everyone? You should've just told us you were struggling. Someone could've helped
you.”

8. Throughout the day, I continued to call her. Whenever I had a new thought that I needed to say,
I pulled up my recent calls and tapped the very top contact. By the end of the day, she was the only
number I'd called even after I scrolled and scrolled.
The last one of that day came right before midnight, when I was buried under all of my covers
wiping tears away. “This is so stupid, me calling you so much. It's pathetic. But I don't know what else
to do.” I didn't know what else I could say, so I clicked my phone off, shut my eyes and tried to sleep.
The day before, of, and after her funeral I didn't dial her number. It didn't feel right to so much
as look at my phone after she was put into the ground. She had a closed casket, which I was grateful
for. I didn't know if I could handle seeing her dead; in front of me but not really there. I know the real
reason was because Mrs. Lightwood didn't want us to see the ligature marks on her neck.
Two weeks after it happened, I called the number. It rang once, twice, and I zoned out as I
waited for the voicemail to pick up. But instead, I heard “Hello?”
Out of pure surprise, I dropped my phone and stared at it lying there on the floor, face-up with
the time spent on the call increasing with each second that passed. I knelt down and ended the call,
feeling my heart pumping wildly under the hand that I had pressed to my chest. Just a second before, I
had heard Sydney fussing downstairs, but now I couldn't hear anything but my hammering pulse.
I got a call back almost instantly. To see Ava's name and face filling my screen made my throat
constrict and my vision blur with tears, and I refused to answer. But whoever was on the other end was
relentless. It had been a male voice. What if it was her dad? The next time Ava's contact lit up my
phone, I picked up.
“Hello?” I said tentatively.
“Hello?” the male voice repeated.
“You called me,” I said.
“Are you the one who keeps calling this number and leaving the sappy voicemails?”
My heart felt like it clogged my throat and I lost my breath for an immediate response. “I...” I
couldn't manage to form a full word, let alone a full sentence.

9. “I'll take that as a yes,” the voice let out a breathy laugh. It wasn't a distasteful tone, but I
suddenly felt very self-conscious.
“That was private,” was all I could manage to say. “All those messages were private.”
“I didn't listen to them at first. But when you kept blowing up my phone, I couldn't help it.”
“Why do you have Ava's phone?” I asked, accusing him.
“I just bought this used. I don't know who Ava is,” he said, innocently enough.
“Oh,” I said softly, staring up at my ceiling fan yet again. “What's your name?”
“Carter. And you're probably Saige. Heard it in the messages.”
“Yeah,” I said. “I'm sorry, I didn't know that she sold...” I paused. “That her mom sold her
phone.”
“Who, Ava?” Carter asked. I told him yes. “Not to be totally rude, but...did Ava die?”
It felt like a blow to the stomach, someone saying it so bluntly as he just had. It took me a few
beats longer than it normally would to answer him. “Um...yeah,” I finally said. “She died a couple
weeks ago.” I couldn't muster up the energy to tell him how.
“I'm sorry,” he said. It wasn't the first time someone had said that to me in the last two weeks.
“Yeah,” I said, biting my lower lip. “We were best friends. So I've just been calling her number
and leaving her messages because it's made it a little easier on me that she's gone, I guess.”
“I kind of ruined that for you it looks like,” he said, and though his tone was friendly, it made
me bristle. His tone shouldn't be friendly. He should be sad. He wasn't understanding the gravity of this
situation. My best friend just died.
“My best friend just died.” I didn't mean for the phrase to come out of my mouth the way it did,
or at all for that matter. It came out so bluntly that I could practically see the words sitting heavy in the
air.
“I know,” he said uncomfortably, “you told me that. And I'm really sorry.”
I was silent for a long time. He asked me what high school I had gone to, what sports I played,
and I found out he was a soccer player from the high school the next town over. He was moving to

10. Ohio State in a week.
“You should call me,” he told me after we had been talking for the better part of an hour, “I
know it's not like talking to Ava or even leaving a message. I'd like to meet up, too, you know.. I could
call you. It'd be cool to put a face to your voice. We should set up something.”
I frowned. “I don't know,” I said. “Maybe.”
“It's kind of weird, you know, that it ended up like this. You seem like a cool girl, Saige...I'm
really glad we got to talk.” He paused like he was expecting a reply back from me, but I didn't give
one. I didn't know what to say, or even what he wanted me to say. “I don't think I'd have gotten to talk
to you any other way. Do you believe in fate?”
At once, it clicked what he was trying to say. He was flirting with me, inadvertently saying that
if Ava hadn't died, we could have never started talking. Do you believe in fate? I could feel my face
turning red with the desire to blow up at him; scream and cry and shout at him how unfair life was and
it seemed like the person with the greatest amount of light in my life had snuffed it out herself. On
purpose. And at that point, I didn't think I'd ever know why.
“No,” I said, “I don't.” I hung up the phone and slipped it under my bed.
The night before I left home for New York, I slipped out of the house after Mom and Sydney
had gone to sleep. Almost everything I owned was packed up in suitcases and boxes that we'd load into
our rented U-Haul the next morning and cart to New York, and everything would change then. I'd leave
my mom, my baby sister, and my best friend all behind on this street.
Alone, I walked down the middle of the torn-up asphalt on LaGrave with my eyes glued on the
stars the entire time. I zipped my sweatshirt up to my chin, it was starting to get colder at night. The
only sound that interrupted the inky night was my flip-flops slapping against the ground, the blue ones
that would get left behind tomorrow.
I pushed open the gate to Pioneer Cemetery and wondered if I should really be there. I felt
uneasy being on my own. I had been here on the day of her funeral as her casket was lowered into the

11. ground where it now rested under fresh dirt. She was a few feet away from me under turned earth, but
as I stood at the gate it felt like she was standing right next to me. I walked over to where she was
buried and studied the light brown, tilled dirt that was still in a mound shape beneath her headstone.
I laid down on the cool grass next to her, feeling the tiny fronds brush against my bare legs and
weave themselves into the back of my hair as I relaxed. I laid there with my eyes closed for a while
with my hands covering them, but then let my arms fall to my sides and opened my eyes upwards. The
sky was as clear as the night I had spent here with her, with the same amount of stars. After the grass
grew over her grave and the earth settled in, the next person to walk through this cemetery on a late
summer night wouldn't know who she was. But I did.
Do you ever think about it?
Her words rang through my mind without permission. The leaves on the branches high above
me rustled from the gentle wind. The breeze whispered through the cemetery like her words; twisting
and curling around the headstones, pulling weakly at my clothes and hair.
“Yeah, Ava,” I said out loud, and the clarity of my voice was surprising. “I think about it all the
time.”