Bright light illuminated my face as I scrolled through Instagram. Cool air blew through my hair, and a soft wind pressed against my cheek. Each time I blinked, my eyelids stayed shut for longer and longer intervals. My feed fills with images of girls posting the same group photo, dressed up and laughing, and teenage boys posing in front of their cars. Every photo began to look the same: dull, contrived, overdone. Sighing, I continued refreshing my homepage, hoping for something different, like photos of baby animals or cooking tutorials. 

The refresh circle at the top of the screen disappeared, replaced by a black square. My attention caught on the user who posted it: Alyssa. I began reading the caption. I felt my heartbeat in my ears as I processed the first sentence.

“If you’re reading this, it’s too late. I’m gone.” 

I instinctively repositioned myself, pulling my knees toward my chest. Dread and curiosity battled in my head—curiosity won. I analyzed each word of her lengthy caption, re-reading phrases, trying to put the pieces together. 

“Oh my God,” I whispered.

“I was never seen,” Alyssa wrote. “No one cared when I was alive.”

And then came the comments. Classmates and friends saying, “Please don’t go,” “Don’t do this ur an amazing person.” Pink heart emojis from the popular girls who never knew her. My stomach twisted, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the screen.

Did they think their comments were sufficient? No one used the space to ask questions, such as if someone had called the police. 

There was no update from Alyssa.

We drove to Alyssa’s house, me in the passenger seat, my mom behind the wheel. My mom held her phone, pressed between her shoulder and ear as she spoke to the police. I sat in silence, thoughts racing.

“Mhmm. Okay,” Mom said flatly. She placed her phone back in the cupholder and eased up on the gas pedal.

“So, the police are informed, and everything’s under control.” 

“But her Instagram post is still up,” I argued. “Wouldn’t she have taken it down or given an update if she was okay?”

“I’m not sure.” Mom turned to me, her brow furrowed, and the corners of her lips pulled down. “We shouldn’t be driving to her house in the first place. You don’t need to get involved.”

“But I am involved, Mom. I’ve literally gone to her house before. What if I did or said something that made her do this? What if I—”

“That’s enough. Alyssa isn’t your responsibility.”

I shifted in my seat and looked down at my phone. I continued refreshing Alyssa’s post, waiting for it to disappear. Nothing changed.

I should have noticed the warning signs. The week before, Alyssa posted several quotes about loneliness and depression on her Instagram. I swiped past, waiting for someone else to catch on.

The semester before, we had discussed the issue in our health class. My teacher was pointing to an acronym on the board, explaining what students should do when someone they know seems in danger of hurting themself.

One kid was aimlessly staring out the window, another was texting underneath her desk. People were fidgeting, playing with their pencils, and drawing on their hands and notebooks to pass the time. One of my classmates asked to “use the restroom” twenty minutes earlier and never came back. 

“If you don’t know what to do in a situation like this, let the person suffering know that you care. Make sure they get treatment. Ask if they are thinking about suicide.”

Are you serious, I thought. No one just approaches someone and asks them if they are considering taking their life. What if they say yes? Then, what?

My mom and I pulled onto Alyssa’s street. Our car slowed down as we approached her house. There was a beige truck parked alone in the driveway, and the front door was shut. I couldn’t see through the windows from the street. 

“Everything is fine. The police are informed. It’s time to go back home,” Mom repeated.

“How can you be so sure?” I asked.

Why wasn’t there a police car, I wondered. Had they arrived earlier? I wasn’t sure what I had expected. Sirens? Ambulances? Was it too late? Did she take her own life?

What was happening behind those closed doors?

It was Friday evening, a week earlier. I was sitting at a round glass table in Alyssa’s kitchen. My high school had a Humans of New York-style journalism club, and to apply, I had to interview someone I’ve never talked to before. I wasn’t sure why I chose Alyssa. Although there were many students to choose from, I had noticed Alyssa in my English class and was intrigued by her quiet nature. 

My shoes were still on. I reached for my glass of water, quickly taking a sip before returning to the questions that I had prepared to ask her. 

“What is one thing you’d change about our school?” I asked.

There was a pause. Alyssa was looking into the distance. She was wearing an oversized sweater and black leggings, the unspoken uniform for girls at my school. I could tell she was trying to fit in. She was cracking her knuckles with great force, and her legs were tightly crossed below the table.

Alyssa cleared her throat. “The issue is that so many kids are struggling, but there aren’t enough people to address their problems. If someone needs mental health support beyond their counselor, who can’t even see them very often, it’s difficult. There should be more resources out there.”

“Yeah, I agree,” I said. 

This wasn’t the direction I’d expected the interview to go—so heavy, so fast—but Alyssa seemed genuinely interested in talking about how our school handles mental health issues. Maybe she’d gone through something in the past, I thought.

Sensing my discomfort, she quickly covered her hands with her sweater, then sat on them. 

“Uh, alright, I think that about covers it. Is there anything else you want to talk about?”

“Nah, that’s it,” Alyssa muttered. She was still looking out the window.

The second bell rang, signaling the start of third period English. I wasn’t sure Alyssa would return to school the Monday after the incident, but part of me was hoping to see her—to make sure she was okay. I still felt a strange sense of responsibility. Her Instagram post was deleted, but there had been no update. 

Students quickly filed into the classroom, sitting at their desks and taking out their thick paper packets. I looked up at the clock. The bell only rang one minute ago, I thought. Maybe she’s just running late. 

Scanning the room, my gaze rested on her empty desk in the corner, near the entrance. Around me, people were casually chatting, laughing, and gossiping about random topics. 

“Can I have some Starbursts?”

“I can’t believe he just stopped texting me. Who does he think he is?”

“How much did you write for homework? I literally have no clue what this question is asking.”

Does no one remember what happened, I wondered. Is anyone else thinking what I’m thinking? They must be. No one was looking at Alyssa’s desk or waiting for her to walk through the door. Even the girls who’d commented on Alyssa’s post just three days before seemed to forget she was in our class. 

Throughout the period, I periodically glanced at the door, but Alyssa never appeared.

“Do you need anything from the cafeteria?” My friend Emma said as she dropped her backpack on the grass. Weeks had passed since Alyssa posted—even I’d begun to forget. 

“Yeah, can you get me a fork?” Emma gave me a thumbs-up as she began walking away. 

The courtyard was surprisingly packed during lunch period, despite the autumn chill. Batches of leaves fell from the trees, creating piles of crimson and burgundy foliage on the grass. Upperclassmen were assembled in groups of four or five, facing each other in close-knit circles. High school sweethearts were feeding each other off their spoons along the outskirts of the quad. 

In the distance, a girl was eating alone. She was hunched over, and her hair was in a messy ponytail. She was wearing a giant sweater. 

Wait, that’s the sweater Alyssa was wearing when I interviewed her, I thought. That has to be Alyssa.

Sitting more than ten feet away from the nearest group of people, Alyssa had no one. Before the incident, she still ate alone. Honestly, what did she expect? That the people who commented on her post would suddenly hang out with her? That by roping her followers into her post they would feel guilty and be friends with her out of pity? 

My body stiffened, disturbed by my thoughts. Should I go and just say “Hi”? What if I talk to her and she clings to me? 

My mom’s words rang in my ears. You don’t need to get involved.

But was my mom right? I wasn’t just a classmate—I knew Alyssa more than most students in our school, but I didn’t consider her my friend, either. My parents had raised me to be a good person, to be friendly to others, but where do I draw the line? I felt like the protagonist from a high school movie, debating whether to talk to the “weird kid” and invite them to hang out. I was afraid to admit that I didn’t want people to see me eating with her, but at the same time I knew that no one else was doing anything either. We never covered this part in health class. 

Emma still hadn’t returned. I stood up, shaking the leaves off my jeans. I began walking toward Alyssa, weaving around groups of students. Do I walk up to her or do I walk by? Do I walk up to her or do I walk by? I was now 20 feet away, 15 feet away, and I hadn’t decided what to do. My legs kept moving. Five feet, four feet, three feet.

She looked up. 

“Hey.”