Those words keep ringing in my head.
Micheal was a friend. Okay that's a lie — Micheal was much more than a friend. He was my crush. And I became close to him the way you become close to people during the worst moments of their lives — when his mum died.
But let me start from the beginning.
I met Micheal back in secondary school. I was a natural when it came to acting — our director always said I had the action but no words. So I was hardly ever given lines. But because of my build I was almost always cast in heavy roles — a king, a warrior, a mother — anything that required presence and action but not much talking. And honestly I was fine with that.
That's where Micheal came in. The charming young lad of the school choir with a beautiful alto voice. I never really understood singers — why people were so drawn to them — but for some strange reason I was drawn to him. Not for his voice initially. There was just something about him I couldn't put my finger on.
We ended up working together on a musical drama. Our drama group wasn't exactly known for singing so we had to collaborate with the school choir. We introduced ourselves and somewhere during one of our rehearsals he walked up to me and said — why don't you talk much?
I thought about it for a moment because it was a strange question.
But I do talk I replied.
No you don't he said. This is a musical drama and everyone has lines except you.
Oh that I said. Well I end up jumbling my words and it causes chaos. My teammates and my director think I'm better at acting than talking.
But talking is part of acting he replied. And walked away.
I didn't know what to make of this strange boy who was suddenly concerned about whether I spoke enough. I didn't particularly like it. But that's how we became close. Before I knew it he was giving me vocal exercises. And by our final play for the term — me, Karina — I had lines. Actual lines. I was more than pleased and I kept thanking God quietly that I had met Micheal.
Now thinking back I wonder if our meeting was orchestrated. If I hadn't spoken to him would he have made better friends. Would he still be alive today. Those questions eat into me every single day.
His mum died eight months later.
He broke down completely. His mum was his reason — the reason he worked so hard, the reason he wanted to be more and do more. And just like that she was gone.
I didn't know how to console him. That was uncharted territory for me. But I tried to be the friend he needed. I showed up anyway. Even when it was more than I knew how to carry.
Until the day it happened.
He called me twice. I still remember it like it was yesterday. I had gone with a friend to watch a football match at a stadium near my house. When he called the first time I put my phone on silent. I told myself I would call him back when I got home. But if I am being honest with myself — and I think I owe myself that honesty now — I was tired. Tired of being his emotional cushion. I just wanted one evening that was just mine. I didn't know what was about to happen. I couldn't have known.
At least that's what I've been telling myself every day since.
I got home. Our social group was buzzing with notifications. And then I saw the picture.
Micheal. Lifeless.
I told myself it had to be a prank. Who would play a prank like that. I raced to the park, boarded a bus to New Vill, arrived at his house. There was crying everywhere. His father said he found him. His neighbour — a classmate — was the one who posted the news.
And just like that Micheal was gone.
Till today I wonder. If I had picked that call. If I had reached out sooner. Could the results have been different. Would we have had a different ending.
I'll never know.
But for a long time I felt like I caused it. Like the two missed calls were a verdict and I was guilty.
I'm not sure I have fully stopped feeling that way. But I'm learning — slowly and not always willingly — that loving someone doesn't mean you can save them from everything. And that guilt, as loud as it is, is not always the truth.
Micheal deserved more time. He deserved his mum back. He deserved a world that was kinder to him.
And maybe I didn't deserve to carry that call like a crime for the rest of my life.
I'm still learning that. Some days are harder than others.
But I remember him. His alto voice. His simple demeanor. The way he walked up to a quiet girl who never had lines and decided she deserved to be heard.
That was Micheal. And no amount of guilt will ever take that away.
This story is purely fictional. But if anything in it felt familiar — if you are carrying guilt about someone you lost, or if you are struggling silently the way Micheal was — please talk to someone you trust. You don't have to carry it alone.