This post is an excerpt from Twenties Unscripted: A Journey of Womanhood, Writing, and Relativity. The full essay is available in the book, which is currently available for pre-sale here.
That was not supposed to be the last time I saw my friend. But, it was. Four months later when my sister said Roswell was missing, I first brushed it off, thinking his phone probably conked out or he had taken some impromptu trip. But, the days during that weekend in August 2011 stretched and stretched. I still figured he was gallivanting somewhere fun on a spontaneous trip. I wasn’t worried. After all, it was Roswell; that is what he would and should be doing. I sat at my desk that Monday and at 4 p.m. I mindlessly checked Facebook where I saw someone had posted a status praying that Roswell would rest in peace. Around 6 p.m, our mutual friend Darius confirmed that it was true. Roswell was gone. The universe had shifted. My heart had a gaping hole. And life would never be quite the same. Just like that, the person I called with my good news, the person I called on my bad days, the person who rooted me on and heckled me and humbled me, would not be on the other end of the line. It did not seem right. It did not make sense. I could not understand. Most days, I still don’t.