CHAPTER 2: THE GIRL WHO WAS FADING.
1087 Words
The ones who leaves sometimes speak in silence and when we fail to listen, we carry the weight forever.
After that viva Friday, the air around Sarah began to feel strange, not heavy exactly, but different. As if she was slowly stepping out of this world while the rest of us tried to cling to the normal. Her actions spoke in riddles, and at the time, none of us had the wisdom or clarity to interpret them.
It started with her energy.
Sarah had always been quiet, but now she was becoming withdrawn. Not the kind where someone is angry or moody, this was deeper. Like a slow fading. As though she was there physically, but her soul was packing its bags.
She was tired all the time. Her eyes lost their sparkle. Her steps slowed. But she still smiled, still showed up, still prayed with us. still made jokes when we gathered. And yet; something in me knew this wasn’t normal tiredness.
I remember a morning we were all at a kiosk, waiting to buy food after class. She offered to pay for everyone.
We were shocked. It wasn’t payday. She wasn’t from a rich home. We laughed and joked, asking if she suddenly hit jackpot or if a man was sponsoring her.
She only smiled and said, “It’s nothing. I just want to do something good today.”
That day, she paid for everyone. People she didn’t even know well. Just like that.
And she began to do that more frequently buying snacks, drinks, even paying full bus fares for strangers on campus routes. One time she entered a tricycle, and when she got down, she gave the rider enough to cover every other passenger’s fare.
“Why did you pay for all of them?” I asked.
She shrugged. “It just felt right.”
I should have known.
There’s a generosity that’s rooted in joy. And then there’s the kind that feels like a last offering, a soul preparing to go, giving everything before it disappears.
Looking back, it was clear. But back then, we just chalked it up to her being sweet, soft-hearted, unusually kind.
Until the day she came to my room and collapsed on the bed, whispering, “I don’t feel like myself anymore.”
I sat beside her and asked if she had seen a doctor. She nodded but gave no details. I didn’t press. I regret that.
Sometimes, people don’t speak because they don’t want to scare you. Or maybe they already know that no one can help them.
Later that evening, she went online and posted something on f*******: that would echo through my chest for years:
“Lord, why am I sinking so deep?”
I still remember the pause I took after reading it. I blinked, read it again, then scrolled past it.
Now I wish I had screenshotted it. Saved it. Asked her. Called her. But we’re so used to pain being poetic on the internet that we ignore real cries wrapped in nice fonts.
Her post didn’t get many likes. I think one girl commented with a heart emoji. That was all.
She came to class the next day like nothing happened. But her skin was pale. Her voice fainter.
There was one moment when I looked at her and felt this strange tug in my stomach a heaviness I couldn’t name. Like a warning. Like the way the air changes before rain. I didn’t know what to do with it, so I ignored it.
But it didn’t ignore me.
Another day, she walked into class carrying a large textbook she had borrowed from me weeks ago.
“Keep it,” I said. “You’ll still need it.”
She smiled. “No. I won’t.”
Her tone was final. Calm, not emotional, not dismissive. Just done.
I laughed nervously. “Sarah, don’t start again o. What do you mean you won’t?”
She turned to me and said something that tightened my chest:
“Don’t worry. I’m ready.”
That was it.
She didn’t explain. She didn’t look scared. If anything, she looked relieved. Like someone who had been waiting for the end, and was finally allowed to walk toward it.
The next few days were filled with small goodbyes that didn’t feel like goodbyes.
She came to school less. Slept more. Texted less. Her presence grew quieter and yet we all felt it louder than ever.
Then came the moment that still replays in my mind like a scratched CD.
We were walking down a hallway after class when she said she was going to visit someone.
“Who?” I asked.
She paused. “My people.” she smiled.
I thought maybe she was referring to distant relatives I didn’t know about. Or maybe it was church folks.
But when she said:
“They’ve been calling me. I think they’re finally here to take me,”
I froze.
I tried to laugh it off, but my chest tightened.
That evening, she went home early. I wanted to visit her the next day Saturday. My spirit told me to go.
I remember standing by my door, holding my bag, then dropping it again.
“I’ll go tomorrow,” I said to myself.
But there was no tomorrow.
On Saturday night, I got a call.
She had collapsed at home. Her neighbor tried to rush her to a clinic, but it was too late.
She was gone.
Just like that.
I stood still for minutes, unable to cry, unable to move. I felt like the world had paused and I was the only one still spinning.
The girl who had no family, who had laughed beside me in class, who brought me my departmental receipt like it was her life’s mission was gone.
She had paid all her debts.
She had given her clothes.
She had returned borrowed books.
She had left final words disguised as jokes.
She had done it all like someone preparing to leave.
And we the friends, classmates, the sister she never had, we missed it.
I broke down in my room that night. I held her scarf in my hands and screamed into my pillow. I replayed her voice, her smile, the f*******: post, the biscuit and drink she insisted on paying for. All of it. Every word. Every laugh. Every ignored sign.
I failed her. We all did.
And now, she was gone.
Without a proper goodbye.
Without a body.
Without a funeral.
Just… gone.
- Writer
