What If I Answered?
I didn’t miss the signs.
I saw them.
Every last one of them.
And that might be what guts me the most.
Because this wasn’t some random overdose.
This wasn’t “one bad night.”
This was a slow decline, a spiral unraveling in front of me—one message at a time. One voicemail. One weird vibe. One line I read twice, wondering is he okay?
His name was BC.
And I loved him.
He wasn’t just some guy from my past—he was someone who showed up when other people didn’t. Someone who made me laugh when I didn’t even want to breathe. Someone who I would’ve moved mountains for—if I’d only realized the ground was giving out that fast.
He started reaching out more in May. At first it was light—checking on me, joking, flirting like we used to, talking about old times. Telling me how proud he was of how far I’d come.
It felt good. Familiar.
But by early June, things shifted. The tone got... off.
His voice messages started rambling. Tangents that didn’t make sense. He’d laugh at nothing.
And then he’d say something that stopped me cold.
“It’s okay. I’m only sitting here with a 12 gauge in my mouth.”
And I snapped.
“That’s not fucking funny, Brian.”
“Don’t ever joke about shit like that with me.”
“Now you’re scaring me—what’s going on?”
He backpedaled.
“I’m okay. I promise. Just giving you a hard time.”
But I knew better.
You don’t say shit like that unless you’re already thinking it.
You don’t bring up a gun like it’s nothing unless it’s already sitting in reach.
And still, I stayed in the messages. Not a call.
Why?
Because I was scared.
Because I knew he was drinking, and possibly using, and I’m in recovery—and I told him straight:
“I can’t call you while you’re like this. I’ll text, but I can’t risk my shit.”
He said he understood.
Said he didn’t want to affect my sobriety.
Said he respected that boundary.
But the guilt? It’s relentless.
Because while I was drawing my line in the sand, he was getting pulled into the tide.
He told me he wanted to come stay with me.
He was trying.
Said he found work but couldn’t hold it because of where he was living.
Said his mom was toxic. That she was pushing him back toward using.
Said if he didn’t get out soon, he was going to end up in jail or dead.
And I believed him.
Because that’s exactly what addiction does—it finds your weakest spot and starts chiseling.
But I didn’t act fast enough.
I told him I’d talk to Thomas. That I’d see about him staying here, getting work, getting clean.
I told him my boundaries. That there could be no drinking or drugs. That this house was sober.
He agreed. He said he was serious. He said he was ready.
And then he asked for help.
Food money. A place to sleep.
A chance.
Just a fucking chance.
And I had it in my hands.
And I let it slip.
I saw his messages. I meant to reply. I planned to follow up.
But I didn’t.
He didn’t die because I ignored him once.
He died because the people around him failed him for years—but that doesn’t let me off the hook.
Because when it really mattered—when he reached out in the clearest, rawest way—I was the one he trusted.
I was the one he called.
And I didn’t answer.
I don’t get to rewrite the ending.
All I get now is the ache of hindsight and the sound of his voice in my head.
This wasn’t just someone ODing.
This was someone asking to live.
This was someone begging me not to leave him behind.
And I did.
People say it wasn’t my fault.
That I was protecting my own sobriety.
That I couldn’t have saved him.
But that doesn’t matter.
Because the truth is:
He told me he needed help.
He said he was scared.
He said he didn’t want to die.
He asked me to pick up.
And I didn’t.
Now he’s gone.
And I will carry that silence with me for the rest of my life.
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