The door to the operating room creaked open slowly. I held my breath, praying for a miracle. A figure stepped out—tall, clad in scrubs, a surgical mask hanging loosely around his neck. His eyes met mine, and I knew.
It wasn't good news.
"Are you Zoey Carpenter?" he asked gently.
I nodded, my knees trembling.
"I'm so sorry. We did everything we could, but…" He paused, lowering his gaze. "The injuries were too severe. They didn't make it."
I didn't scream. I didn't collapse. I just stood there, frozen. My mind couldn't process what he had just said.
Dead?
Both of them?
"No," I whispered, more to myself than to him. "No, that's not possible."
"I understand how hard this is," the doctor said softly, stepping closer, "but would you like a moment with them?"
A moment?
How do you say goodbye to the only people who ever made you feel whole in *just a moment*?
But I nodded again.
---
The room was eerily quiet. Too clean. Too white.
There they were—my parents—lying side by side, like they were just sleeping. My dad's hand was slightly stretched out, almost touching Mom's. Her face was pale, her lipstick faded, but her expression was calm. Peaceful, even.
Tears ran freely down my cheeks as I stepped forward.
"Mom? Dad?" I choked. "Please… wake up."
I reached out and held their hands. Cold. Lifeless.
"I was just talking to you," I whispered, my voice trembling. "No , no this can't be happening to me. We still have a lot to do together. I can't live without you. We were planning a trip… pasta night… Niagara Falls. Remember?"
The silence was louder than anything I had ever heard.
It hit me then—really hit me.
They were gone. Forever.
The screen had gone black, and it wasn't coming back on.
I bent over and kissed my mom's forehead, then my dad's. My tears soaked into the hospital sheets as I whispered the words I never thought I'd have to say so soon.
"Goodbye."
---
I don't remember how the night went as l spent the whole night sobbing in the hospital. Everything felt like a blur—like I was drifting through time, detached from reality.
The next morning, Ariana found me in a corner in the hospital. She came after she was done with her exam. My eyes felt like they had been set on fire.
"Zoey…" she said softly, leaning besides me . "I'm so sorry."
I didn't say a word. I didn't have the strength.
She wrapped her arms around me, and I broke down again.
"I should've been with them," I whispered through my sobs. "I should've gone home last weekend. I—"
"Don't do that," Ariana said quickly. "This isn't your fault."
"But what if I had just called them later? Or told them not to go out—"
"Zoey," she cut in, gripping my shoulders. "You couldn't have known. You *couldn't* have stopped it. Don't torture yourself."
I wanted to believe her, but grief is never rational. It wraps around your chest like a chain, tightening until you can barely breathe.
---
The following days went in a blur filled with condolences, and funeral preparations. Neighbors, colleagues and old classmates who l barely remembered reached out, offering their sympathy like poorly wrapped gifts I didn't ask for.
"I'm so sorry for your loss."
"They were such good people."
"Stay strong."
I hated every word of it.
What did *stay strong* even mean?
I didn't want to be strong. I wanted my parents back.
---
The funeral was quiet. Small. My parents didn't have a big family( l couldn't remember not even one of my extended family from either of my parents side , except one of my father's step brother)—just a few close friends, some neighbors, and a handful of colleagues. I stood at the front, black dress clinging to my skin like a second layer of sorrow. I didn't cry. I couldn't. The tears had run dry.
Ariana came. She held my hand the entire time.
As the caskets were lowered into the earth, something in me cracked.
I was alone.
Utterly, completely alone.
---
That night, back in my room in my parents house , I stared at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Ariana had finally drifted off on my bed, emotionally drained from being my rock all week.
I opened my laptop—out of habit, more than anything else.
The screen lit up.
The last video call with my parents was still in my browser history. I hovered over it. My heart clenched. My fingers trembled.
I clicked play.
There they were. Laughing. Teasing each other. Loving each other. Loving me.
And suddenly, I realized something.
This wasn't the end of their story—it was the beginning of mine.
A story of learning to survive.
To rebuild.
To grieve.
To remember.
Because even though they were gone, their love… their laughter… their light… still lived in me.
---
**To Be Continued**