A accident

I was just sitting, sipping my tea. An hour ago, I had called Nagi, asking her to come over. But it didn’t go as planned.

She’d had an accident on the way—hit-and-run. The police called me first because I was the last person to speak to her. They told me she was in the hospital.  I think the hospital had also called her parent. 

Two stories up, ten seconds flat. I burst into the room. She was bleeding badly. Her mother screamed, “What happened to you? Where were you, Nagi? Can you hear me?” Her relatives shouted, but I didn’t move. I just sat there.

I sat through the night while the doctors talked, but I didn’t hear a word. Our relationship was a secret, so I had to act like I wasn’t there for her.

The next morning, I went home. My dad called, asking where I’d been. I told him a friend had gotten into an accident. Later, at school, I heard the news. She wasn’t alive anymore. I sighed. No tears came. I didn’t know why.

I still remember the last night. The sweet smell of her hair. Her soft lips. We’d been together since the first year of high school. Now, in the middle of our final year, she was gone.

Classmates came up to me, asking if I knew what happened. I told them no. I just wanted one more chance to talk to her. She had been so kind, my friend since elementary school. Our families weren’t close, but that didn’t matter—we stayed friends, stayed together.

In high school’s first year, I confessed to her. I didn’t think she’d say yes—she was beautiful, and better guys were around. But she did. My heart soared. I felt like it could reach the sun.

And now… she wasn’t here.

I remembered the smell of the grass the day I confessed, the birds chirping. So quiet I could hear my own heartbeat. When she accepted me, my eyes must have mirrored hers. I could see her in me, like she had always been just a little too close to reach—always five centimeters away.

I wanted to talk to her one last time. But I can’t.

I sighed.
I hope I could hear her voice, just once more. But this is real life. Not a story. Not fiction.

Still… what would happen if I called her number?

I picked up my phone. Scrolled to her name—Nagi—and pressed call. I thought it would go straight to voicemail.

But it rang.

And then—click. Someone picked up.

For a second, I swore it was her. I thought maybe, just maybe, she had answered. That she wanted to say goodbye, just one last time.

But it wasn’t Nagi.

It was her mom.

Her voice was shaky, angry. “Hello? Who are you? Why are you calling my daughter’s number?”

I froze. My chest dropped. Then I panicked and hung up instantly.

Regret hit me so hard I wanted to sink into the floor. Embarrassment burned in my face. Why did I do that? If only I could turn back time, erase that stupid moment.

Lying on my bed, I started thinking of Nagi. Of her smile, of the life we could have had. My mind drifted, deeper and deeper, until I imagined things we never shared—moments of closeness, intimacy. Even in dreams, I was chasing her ghost.

Shame flooded me. Why was I thinking like this about someone who was already gone?

The door suddenly swung open.

“Aron,” my mom’s voice cut in, sharp, “I’ve been calling you. Dinner’s ready.”

“Yes, I’m coming,” I muttered.

“Quickly.”

“I said I’m coming!”

I dragged myself up, but halfway to the door I stopped. My body felt heavy. Instead, I lay back down. Closed my eyes.

And drifted into sleep.