My classmate survived the crash but his brother didn’t

The Weight of Loss

On day three, I texted Eugene at 1:30 a.m. on a Wednesday night.

Get dressed. We’re going to a diner. And sent him the address.

His response was immediate, which meant he wasn’t sleeping either. It was just a thumbs up emoji.

Eugene showed up looking like death warmed over, hair sticking up in 12 directions.

“Why am I here?” He dead panned.

“Food tastes different at 2 a.m. when you’re supposed to be asleep,” I told him as he slid into the booth across from me. “That makes zero scientific sense.”

“Most good things don’t.”

The waitress looked about 70 and completely unbothered by two teenagers destroying their sleep schedules.

Eugene ordered black coffee and nothing else. “You need to eat something,” I said.

“Not hungry.” I knew that wasn’t true, so I ordered one of everything from the breakfast menu.

“That’s crazy, Eugene said. You can’t possibly eat all that.” “Watch me.”

When the food came, it covered the entire table.

Pancakes, waffles, eggs every way possible. Bacon, sausage, hash browns, toast, French toast, oatmeal.

Eugene stared at it all like it personally offended him.

“Try the hash browns.” I pushed the plate toward him. “I said, I’m not hungry.”

“Just one bite. They’re crispy.” “Why do you care if I eat?”

“Because starving yourself is boring. At least be original.”

He took the smallest possible bite, probably just to prove a point. Then he took another one.

“They’re decent,” he admitted, then stole three more when he thought I wasn’t looking.

On day six, I dragged Eugene to the abandoned parking garage behind the old Sears at midnight.

“We’re going to scream,” I announced when we got to the top level.

“I’m sorry, what?” “Scream as loud as we can until our throats hurt.”

He looked at me like I’d suggested we light ourselves on fire.

I went first, just opened my mouth, and screamed into the empty concrete space.

It echoed forever, bouncing off walls and coming back angry.

Eugene stood there looking deeply uncomfortable. “Come on,” I said. “No one can hear us up here.”

“This is so stupid.” “Everything’s stupid.” “Scream about it.”

He did this weak little yell like he was calling a dog.

“That was pathetic. My grandmother could scream louder and she’s dead.”

That got him. He actually screamed for real this time. And then again.

And then we were both just screaming into the darkness like lunatics.

Our voices cracking and overlapping until you couldn’t tell who was who. We went until our throats were raw.

Then Eugene screamed words instead of just sound. “It should have been me.”

The echo made it worse, repeating it back over and over. Should have been me. Been me. Me.

His whole body was shaking and he was breathing heavily like he wanted to cry but couldn’t.

“Eugene dash dash dot.” “Don’t.” He said sharp and ragged like opening up that can of worms would have destroyed him. “Just don’t.”

I couldn’t stop thinking about what Eugene screamed in that parking garage. “It should have been me.”

The words kept bouncing around my head for two days, and I knew I was missing something huge.

Day seven, we’d gone to the arcade, and he’d played games like a zombie, not even reacting when he won.

Something was getting worse, not better. So, day eight, I decided to try something different.

I’d found this old music store that let you play any instrument for free.

Thinking maybe he needed to create something instead of just consuming experiences, I texted him three times with no response, which wasn’t that weird since he usually ignored me until I threatened to show up to his house.

But something felt off. Maybe it was the way he’d looked at me yesterday, like he was memorizing my face.

Maybe it was just paranoia. But I drove to his house at 3 p.m. when his parents would still be at work.

The front door was cracked open, which immediately made me nauseous. “Eugene.”

I pushed it wider and stepped inside. The house was dead silent.

That kind of thick quiet that feels wrong. “Eugene, this isn’t funny.”

I walked through the living room, noting the family photos where someone had been carefully cut out of each one.

The kitchen was empty. I climbed the stairs and my hands were already shaking because some part of me knew.

Some part of me recognized this specific type of quiet from when I was 10 years old.

Coming home from school to find the house too quiet and mom’s bedroom door open, her room ransacked, and all her things just gone.

Eugene’s room looked just like hers, like a tornado hit it.

Drawers pulled out, closet door hanging open, hangers on the floor.

His laptop was gone. His backpack was gone.

That stupid physics textbook he carried everywhere was gone.

Not again. Not again. Not again. Please, not again, I repeated to myself.

A cheap effort to comfort myself and think of a solution. “Eugene, please.”

“I can’t do this again. Please.”

My mind was spiraling and eyes darting everywhere.

And that’s when I noticed a note on his nightstand. My name was at the top.

“Stop playing Savior. This isn’t your fault, but it’s not your business either. Find a better project.”

I crumpled it up and threw it at the wall. He was going to the damn train station.

I just knew it. I didn’t know if I was too late, but that didn’t stop me.

I got in my car and went to the nearest train station.

The train station was huge and I was running around like an idiot with no plan.

It didn’t help that the place was packed with business people with their stupid briefcases, families dragging crying kids, everyone moving like they knew exactly where they were going except me.

I was that crazy girl sprinting through the crowds, checking every platform, every bench, every corner where someone could hide with a duffel bag.

Platform one, I found nothing. Platform two was just some couple making out, which gross.

Platform 3, four, 5, nothing, nothing, nothing. My heart was doing that thing where it beats so hard you can hear it in your ears.

What if I was too late? What if he’d already gotten on some train to nowhere?

What if this wasn’t even the right station and I was wasting time while he was running away to god knows where?

Then platform 7, I spotted him. He was waiting for the train doors to open.

He was gripping his duffel bag tightly. Then the door opened and he already had one foot stepping forward.

I didn’t think, just ran because this was my only chance.

I grabbed his jacket with both hands and yanked backwards so hard we both went down.

We hit the platform floor with this horrible thud that knocked the wind out of me.

My elbow hurt like hell and people were staring, but I didn’t let go of his jacket.

“What the [ __ ] Heather?” He tried to scramble up, but I still had his jacket in a death grip.

I got right in his face to yell at him. “What are you doing? We had a deal.”

“30 days, remember? You promised me 30 days, and it’s been 8 8 and you’re just going to run away like a coward?”

“Let go of me.” His voice was ice cold.

The train doors closed and it started pulling away.

He watched it go and his whole face changed. Got meaner.

“You just ruined everything. That was my chance to finally” “to what?”

“Disappear. Leave everyone wondering if you’re dead in a ditch somewhere.”

“You weren’t even supposed to be at my house.” “Well, tough luck,” I shouted.

I watched him look at me with this look of disgust like he couldn’t hate anything more than he hated me right now.

Then he went off on me. “I specifically told you to leave me alone.”

“I left you a note. Why couldn’t you just stop?”

But he didn’t stop. “You had no right to interfere. This was my choice, my decision.”

“You know what you are, Heather. You’re pathetic.”

“Some sad girl who needs to feel important by forcing herself into other people’s lives.”

“Eugene, no.” “You listen.”

“You think because you drag me to stupid places and make me scream in parking garages that you understand me.”

“You don’t know anything about me. You’re just another person who needs me to stay so you can feel better about yourself.”

I rubbed at my eyes, feeling the aching of my heart and how heavy everything felt.

I just sat there taking it all, watching him rage from his hospital bed while my brain kept putting my mother’s face over his. “Say something,” Eugene practically screamed at me, and I realized I’d been completely silent for minutes.

“I’m not playing around with you, Eugene. You think this is a game? You think I’m doing this for fun?”

He started to respond, but I kept talking. “My mom left when I was 10.”

The words came out quiet, almost like I was testing if I could actually say them out loud.

“She never wanted me in the first place. She got pregnant at 19 and wanted to get rid of me.”

I swallowed hard, but her parents found out and they were super religious, so they forced her to keep me.

Eugene went completely still. She resented me every single day. I could feel it, you know.

My voice was starting to shake and I had to stop, take a breath.

The way she’d look at me sometimes like I was this thing that stole her life.

She’d see her friends on Facebook living their college life, traveling, being normal 20somes, and then she’d look at me like I was a prison sentence she was serving.

Eugene looked uncomfortable now, but I couldn’t force myself to stop now that I opened up the can of worms I swore I would never open.

Then one day, I came home from school. It was November 19th. I’ll never forget that day.

Her car was gone. Eugene, I thought maybe she went to the store, but the house felt wrong.

Empty in a way that gave me goosebumps. Her closet was cleaned out, drawers empty.

She just erased herself from my life like I was something she could just walk away from.

My voice was cracking and I didn’t care.

“Do you know what that does to a kid? thinking that your own mother would rather disappear completely than stay with you.”

He couldn’t answer me because he didn’t know. How could he know?

No one’s seen her since. No one knows where she went.

I can’t even remember what she looks like anymore. Eugene, my own mother’s face just faded.

Sometimes I think I imagined her entirely.

I took a deep breath, not allowing myself to cry when I needed to be strong.

I looked up at him, sure of myself. My voice got steady and stern.

“So, no, Eugene. I’m not playing savior. I’m not trying to fix you for my ego.”

“I’m trying to give you what I couldn’t give her. A reason to stay before it’s too late.”

“You promised me 30 days, so either keep your promise or look me in the eye and tell me those 22 days mean nothing to you.”

He stared at me with his mouth open, all his anger vanishing. “Heather, I didn’t.”

“22 more days, Eugene, when that’s all I’m asking. Give me that.”

He agreed.

But here’s the thing Eugene doesn’t realize.

While he was sitting on the train station floor agreeing to 22 more days just to shut me up, I was already making plans.

Because if he thinks I’m going to go back to midnight pool breaks and pretending everything’s fine, he’s wrong.

I saw those family photos with someone cut out. I heard him scream. “It should have been me.”

Like it was ripped from his soul. There’s something massive he’s not telling me.

Something that’s eating him alive.

Tomorrow I’m done with the fun and games approach.

I’m going to find out what actually happened, who was in those photos, and why Eugene thinks running away is the best option.

He owes me 22 days, and I’m going to use every single one to drag whatever he’s hiding into the light.

Second update. So, I said I was going to find out what Eugene’s been hiding.

Well, I’ve been keeping tabs on him since the train station, making sure he actually shows up places doesn’t disappear again.

But today, day 15, he went somewhere I didn’t expect, a cemetery.

And suddenly, all those cutout photos and that scream about how it should have been him started making horrible sense.

I’m sitting in my car watching him talk to a headstone, and I’m about to understand exactly why he wants to run away so badly.

After the train station, things got weird between us.

Eugene kept his promise about the 22 days, but it felt different.

Days 9 through 14 were quiet. We’d meet up and just sit places, a coffee shop, the library, his driveway.

Neither of us talking about what I’d told him or what he’d tried to do.

It was like we’d both shown too much and now we didn’t know how to act normal.

He was obviously depressed, but something had changed.

Maybe it was knowing about my mom. Maybe it was me knowing he’d actually tried.

Either way, we were in this strange limbo where I didn’t know if I was helping or just watching him run out the clock.

Day 15, I decided to switch tactics.

Instead of texting him about meeting up, I just parked down the street from his house and waited.

I know how that sounds, but after finding him at the train station, I couldn’t shake the feeling that he might try to leave again.

That the 22 days were just him humoring me.

So, when he came out around 5:00 p.m. and got in his car, I followed him.

I stayed back enough that he wouldn’t notice.

Feeling like a stalker, but also like I couldn’t not do this.

He drove for about 20 minutes past the school, past downtown to the edge of town where everything gets rural.

When he turned into the cemetery, I suddenly felt like I was somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be.

I parked outside the gates and watched him walk in, then waited 5 minutes before following.

The cemetery was old headstones dating back to the 1800s mixed with newer ones.

I found Eugene in the newer section, standing in front of a black granite headstone.

Miles 2005 to 2022. Beloved son and brother.

The math was easy. His brother died 2 years ago at 17. Eugene was 15 when it happened.

He was just standing there, hands in his pockets, talking quietly.

I couldn’t hear the words, but I could see his shoulders shaking.

I should have left. This was private, but something made me walk over.

Not close, just near enough that he’d know I was there. He didn’t turn around.

“How long have you been following me?” he asked, voice flat.

“Since you left your house,” I admitted, because what was the point of lying?

“That’s creepy, Heather.” “Yeah, well, you almost leaving was worse.”

We stood there in silence for maybe 5 minutes. The wind was cold, and I pulled my jacket tighter.

Finally, Eugene said, “His name was Miles. He was 2 years older than me and perfect at everything.”

He laughed, but it was bitter. I mean, literally everything.

Straight A’s without trying. Varsity baseball since freshman year. Full ride to Stanford for engineering.

The kind of son parents brag about at dinner parties.

I moved closer. Still not touching him, but close enough that he’d know I was listening.

“They loved him more. That’s not even me being dramatic. It’s just true.”

“He was easier to love, funnier, smarter, nicer.”

“I was the weird kid who read too much and couldn’t catch a ball if my life depended on it.”

“What happened?” I asked quietly.

Eugene’s whole body tensed, and for a second, I thought he’d just leave.

I was sure he would shut me out. But then the words started pouring out.

“We were coming back from his baseball game. February 10th, 2 years ago.”

He’d pitched a no hitter, and we were going to get pizza to celebrate.

Mom and dad were meeting us there. His voice was getting rougher.

“This truck ran a red light, one of those huge pickups.”

“Miles saw it coming before I did.”

I swallowed hard, mentally and physically, preparing myself for what was to come.

“I was in the passenger seat and the truck was coming right at my door.”

He stopped talking and kicked at the grass. “He turned the wheel.” “Hard left.”

“He put himself between me and the truck.” The words came out strangled.

“I’m alive because he turned the wheel. He chose me.”

I wanted to say something, but my throat was closed up.

Eugene kept going like if he stopped now, he’d never get it out.

“The truck hit his side going 50 mph. He died on impact.”

“Meanwhile, I walked away with bruises.”

He finally looked at me and his eyes were red and wet.

“Everyone said he was a hero, that he saved me.”

“But all I could think was that the world lost Miles, future engineer, Stanford student, perfect son, and got stuck with me instead.”

“The disappointing one, the spare kid who wasn’t supposed to survive.”

“Your parents?” I started, but he cut me off.

“They never say it, but I know they wish he had survived instead.”

“Even though they never say it, I know. How could they not?”

“They lost their golden child and got left with the broken one.”

“Every family dinner, every holiday, every [ __ ] day, I can see them looking at me and seeing the wrong son.”

“They cut him out of all the family photos because it hurts too much to see him.”

“But I know what they’re really doing is trying not to think about how it should have been me that got hit.”

“How Miles should be at Stanford right now instead of in the ground.”

His voice cracked completely on the last word, and suddenly he was crying.

Not pretty tears, but ugly, body-shaking sobs, like something had finally broken open.

“I was supposed to die that day. The truck was coming for me.”

“He wasn’t supposed to turn the wheel. He wasn’t supposed to choose me.”

“I’m not worth it. I’m not worth his life.”

I grabbed him then, pulled him against me, even though we weren’t huggers.

Weren’t friends like that, but he needed someone to hold him together while he fell apart.

“It should have been me,” he kept saying into my shoulder. “It should have been me.” “It should have been me.”

I held him while he cried in that cemetery.

This broken boy who’d been carrying his brother’s death like a weight around his neck.

Everything made sense now. He wanted to leave this life behind because it was a constant reminder of his brother’s death.

He wasn’t just depressed. He was drowning in survivors guilt, convinced he’d stolen his brother’s life and didn’t deserve to keep it.

“Eugene,” I said when his sobs finally slowed.

“Your brother turned that wheel because he loved you. Not because you were worth less.”

“Because you were worth everything to him. Worth his life.”

“That’s not a debt. That’s a gift.”

He pulled back and looked at me with eyes so lost I wanted to cry.

“How do I live with that?”

“You don’t have to figure out how to live with it forever.” “Just today, then tomorrow?”

“Just tomorrow.” “Stop trying to solve your entire life at once.”

“Miles gave you time. Use it to breathe, not to plan your escape.”