When We Collided(80)

Either way, Jonah, I simply cannot wait to see who you become.

Until someday,

Vivi

P.S. I left something for you on the restaurant patio. Took me all night. I call it “How We Say Good-bye.”

I blink, taking in the sharp lines of her name and, next to it, a red lip print, kissing me good-bye. Of course she’d make a dramatic exit, even without being here. We can’t keep each other—I know that. But I wanted to see her one last time. I wanted to say thank you; I wanted to make one last attempt at memorizing her.

I hurry to the restaurant, clutching her good-bye note. What would she leave for me? What would take her all night?

I don’t even bother going into the restaurant itself. I cut through the side alleyway to the patio, and I stop dead in my tracks. I expected that she left something for me on the picnic table. But it’s not that.

On the wall opposite the patio, she painted me a mural.

My heart beats like tripping feet. I try to imagine her, balanced on a ladder all night with a sling on her arm. The patio lights are on—I never leave them on—so she must have painted by the light of them. She did this for me. How We Say Good-bye.

The Verona Cove lighthouse is in the right foreground. Beyond it, there are ships in the harbor—seven of them—all with white sails. I’m not sure how she gave a flat wall so much movement, like each sail is flickering. I can almost hear them beating against the wind. There’s one bigger boat in the distance, sailing toward the upper left corner. The horizon, gold and blue, looks inviting and limitless. The lone boat’s sails puff out in pride, a pioneer to the unknown. The seven boats in harbor seem to be waving good-bye, cheering Bon Voyage! Vivi crammed all her vivification into this one painting, right down to the nautical flags on the biggest ship.

I learned the letters associated with nautical flags when I was a kid. The first is a “D.” The second, blue and white: an “A.” Wait. My eyes skip down the mast. They spell out D-A-N-I-E-L-S. It strikes me like whiplash—there are also seven little ships in harbor. One for every living member of my family.

This is not a painting about Vivi and me saying good-bye.

The large boat sailing away for new adventures . . . it’s my dad. Oh my God. She painted a family portrait. She painted us as sailboats. I see it now—how could I have missed it at first?

My eyes fill, hot with tears. Because, apparently, casual crying is just something that I do now. My chest caves in with missing my dad.

I touch the horizon line, skimming my hand over the still-tacky paint. Gold melts into every color of blue where the ocean dips off into nothing. Do you believe in heaven? Vivi asked me once, and I told her the truth: that I want to. In one painting, she gave me something I’ve needed for months now: happiness even in uncertainty. What’s past that horizon line? And how many of us get our somedays? I don’t know.

But just because I don’t know doesn’t mean it can’t be great.

It takes me a second to notice the small letters painted in the bottom corner. But I knew they’d be there like I know they’ll be all over the world someday.

Vivi was here.





AUTHOR’S NOTE

Here’s the truth: I wasn’t sure if I should write this author’s note because When We Collided is just a love story in a world that looks a lot like mine. Some of us go to therapy, some take medication, some have to carefully balance exercise and sleep to stay in a good place mentally. There are bad days. There are also best days: dinner parties, art galleries, vacations, and sunlit, sideways-laughing happiness. They can coexist. They do coexist. This is my normal.

But that’s the thing, isn’t it? I didn’t always see this as normal, and I worry that we’re not talking about mental health enough. And if we’re not talking about it enough, how can we possibly shine enough light into places that can feel very dark and very lonely? So I’m going to talk about it here.

This is what I would like to say. The experiences in this book are of course fictional, but depression—whether clinical, spurred on by trauma or grief, or as a component of bipolar disorder—is so very real. If you, like Vivi, are trying to navigate your own mental health or, like Jonah, are grieving or supporting a loved one, I truly encourage you to talk to someone you trust. Reach out to a parent, teacher, counselor, or therapist. Visit the resources I’ve listed for you below. People out there are waiting to be on your side. But first you have to tell them where you are so they can come stand with you. I know verbalizing what you feel—what you need—can be intimidating if you’ve never done it before. But using your voice is a kind of strength that makes you powerful. And while I can’t tell you what will work for you or if that path will have setbacks, I can tell you I believe prioritizing your health is important, undervalued, and something you deserve.

I can also tell you that you are so, so not alone. The CDC statistics about bipolar disorder and depression are staggering, but it can be easy to see those as just numbers. I keep a mental list of all the people I know in real life or people I admire who live with mental illness. People who have faced difficult battles and gone on to thrive. Sure, it takes management, but those friends and family members are my visibility. They’re my list. When I’m having a rough anxiety day, I go over their stories in my mind, like a prayer, like a chant. I see that a diagnosis isn’t a destination a doctor sticks you in but a road you walk—with agency, with travel companions if you wish. That journey can bring you closer to the people beside you and take you as far as you want to go. I believe this.