forget me not

CW: passing mentions of death and self-harm, themes of depression/mental health struggles

Forget-me-nots were Layla’s favourite flower; they reminded her of the flowers she used to draw as a child – a yellow centre, and five petals forking out into the shape of a star. They grew in bunches, depending on one another for remembrance.

Forget-me-nots were also my favourite flower. Not just because they were Layla’s favourite flower, but because they reminded me of Layla’s dog, who died a few years ago. He was getting old but passed quickly and quietly before he suffered too much. The vets gave us a pack of forget-me-not seeds along with the box of his ashes.

We scattered his ashes at the top of the tallest hill in Layla’s countryside, and every time we’d climb up that mini mountain, she’d mutter a greeting to him as we neared the top. For some reason, we didn’t get around to planting the flower seeds in her back garden; Layla thought they were a sorry substitute, regardless of how much she loved the flowers themselves.

That dog was her parents’ pet first, but Layla grew up with him. After he passed away, she clung to his memory like a lifeline. Both of us were 13, and it was the first instance of death we’d ever experienced. From that difficult year of mine and Layla’s combined grief, I learned that death does strange things to people – it can deepen connections and give people a renewed sense of life, though that only comes after the crushing pain.

As the years wore on, Layla’s beloved dog faded from her mind. The space was needed, I suppose, for more harrowing thoughts. A darkness crept into her life, and though I tried my hardest to bring back the light, make her laugh and smile as she’d done as a child, it all appeared to be in vain.

She had less and less time for me, homework and exams being amongst her most frequent excuses for refusing to hang out. Those lies hurt the most; we mostly had the same classes, and sometimes she’d seem to forget that, claiming she had English homework when there wasn’t anything set that week.

Not wanting to accuse her outright of ditching me, I kept quiet and stuck by her. The very thought of leaving Layla for good was painful – so much so that it hardly ever crossed my mind.

***

Forget-me-nots aren’t the best plant for remembrance, as it turns out. Most strains of the flower bloom in their first year, then die off in their second year. Likewise, I’d watched as Layla had bloomed in her mid-teenage years. Yet the bleakness of future years, her twenties and beyond, stretched out ahead of her and seemed far too much to handle, even for her.

I sat down with her on a Sunday afternoon when she finally found time for me. “I think you should think about seeing someone, Layla. There are people that can help you through this.”

I’d been mentioning her getting help on and off for the past few years. Just subtle hints at first: the benefits of physical exercise, self-care, journalling – all the textbook things. Her parents couldn’t pick up on it the same way I could; Layla hid these sorts of things far too well. The fact I seemed to be the only one who could see through her defences weighed down on me: undue guilt infected my happiness unless Layla was smiling too.

Things had worsened though, as Layla’s mental strength had deteriorated along with her will to continue. I’d caught glimpses of the self-inflicted scars on the soft flesh of her wrists. I doubted she’d take it further, but I couldn’t trust my doubt was well-placed. Layla wasn’t in the right state of mind – she hadn’t been for a while.

“Did you hear me, Layla? You can get help for this,” I repeated, biting back the irritation in my voice.

“I think you’re right. I know you’re right,” Layla’s response was quiet, her eyes dashing my way only to stare off at the carpet. “But I need you to go. Please.”

“Layla, I’m only trying to help,” I insisted, my heart tearing itself apart at her sending me away – what if she pushed me so far away I wouldn’t be able to come back? “Look, we’ve been best friends since forever, right? Primary school, secondary school, and now we’re making it through sixth form. After this, university or an apprenticeship, or jobs, whatever – wherever life carries us.”

Layla started shaking her head with increasing vigour. “No, no, no.”

I bit my lip. “I’ll go.”

She didn’t turn to me as I left her alone in her room.

Leaving Layla always hurt, and I could never stand being away from her for long: we’d known each other since we were 5, a classic case of two little girls bonding over their love for the colour pink and cute stuffed animals. We’d grown up together: facing the pains of being teenagers before having to confess to her mum the things we couldn’t sort out ourselves. We’d made it through high school by sticking to each other, avoiding rugby boyfriends and detentions with equal disgust.

It was only when we started studying for our A Levels, at the same sixth form, that things were starting to deteriorate for Layla. I could never quite put my finger on it, but she was becoming more and more distant from me.

It’s natural for people to grow apart – I know that much. But I’d expected that as long as Layla and I were in the same town, at least, we wouldn’t drift away from each other. Driving me away also didn’t seem like something Layla would do, regardless of how she was feeling. 

She had a fairly large group of friends, though I wouldn’t exactly say she was properly close with more than three of them, me included. The other girls in that group tended to ignore me, so much so that I quickly learned to stop talking around them. It’s far better to stay in silence than be ignored when you speak.

As long as Layla was happy, though, that was all I cared about.

I could be invisible, but that wouldn’t matter one bit if it meant that people could truly see Layla.

***

Before school, the following week, I drew a bunch of forget-me-nots on a scrap of paper to give to Layla. I’d spent a week off school, sick and bedridden – so ill I could hardly recall the days passing – though now I was back, I could talk to Layla again about her undertaking or at least trying therapy.

Layla walked straight past me, even as I’d called out and waved to her in the greyness of an early November morning. Shock and confusion infused into a sickening sensation roiling around my stomach. It was beyond odd; even on Layla’s lowest days, she’d always have a smile for me. Maybe a snippet of conversation, a ‘hello’ at least.

Throughout the day, she avoided me. She skipped our shared classes and completely blanked me at lunchtime – as if I wasn’t even there. She walked out of school with some of the girls who drove to the chippy at lunch, sparing me a frowning glance. I stopped, frowning too, and watched them walk out of the front gates.

I knew Layla’s scathing glances well enough from watching her with her little sister, to know that she didn’t want me tagging along with her friends. In silence, I turned and drifted back to the sixth form café.

Inadvertently, I hovered near a few of Layla’s friends talking about my supposed best friend. Unable to hide my curiosity, I pretended to scroll through my phone as I listened in.

“Did you hear? Layla’s started going to counselling sessions, here at school,” a brunette told a blonde in a hushed voice. I’d like to say I knew their names, but they were Layla’s friends, not mine.

“That’s really great for her then. I think it’s so good when people can admit they need help.” Her tone itched at me, falseness coating her words like fake lashes glued onto real ones. “You know, I did hear that she has, like, voices in her head.”

“I heard it was just one. Some sort of imaginary friend,” the brunette giggled and rolled her eyes. “What a nutter.”

Stepping into action, I opened my mouth to defend my best friend – only to be rendered speechless, words refusing to form on my tongue. My forehead scrunched into a frown, though my frustration did nothing to produce speech or have any other effect on the girls.

They continued to gossip in their vapid ways as if I wasn’t standing right over them, not even noticing my presence. I cleared my throat, though they acted as if they hadn’t heard anything.

“Apparently the school counsellor is really good. A bit overqualified, I’ve heard,” the blonde answered as she swiped on a fresh layer of lip gloss. “At least that means Layla will get over her semi-schizophrenia fairly quickly.”

“I don’t think schizophrenia can be fixed that easily.” The brunette laughed, the sharp accents of her humour cutting deep into me.

I tried to speak again, only to be mute once again. I raised my hand to drag it over my face, only to see straight through my palm – straight to the girls at the table in front of me.

A sharp and silent scream escaped my mouth. No one noticed or even heard, for that matter. 

What the hell is going on?

Glancing out the ceiling-high windows, I searched for my reflection at the girls’ table. I couldn’t see myself anywhere, so I forced myself to walk, as opposed to sprint, to the toilets upstairs. The mirror in front of me was empty – the mirror where I’d stood so many times with Layla, reapplying lip balm, sorting out our skirts and sharing a quick glimpse of gossip before going back to the others.

That counsellor must be good, I thought as I closed my eyes and reality sunk in.

Layla’s life flashed through my mind, yet all the memories of us together were replaced with a bitter truth. Her life was devoid of me. Birthday parties, sleepovers, cinema trips, shopping trips – all the quintessential expeditions of girlhood, all the things I thought I’d been for, I simply wasn’t. Now, Layla was whispering to an empty space in every revised memory.

Emptiness tore through me, though I now too was simply emptiness.

I don’t know how long I stood there, searching my memory for any trace of my life beyond Layla’s. There was nothing: her mum was my mum, her family was mine, though I’d merely been a fictional addition.

With my once-full, once-beating heart now void of life, I tramped downstairs and waited outside for Layla to return. It started raining, and the drops coloured the concrete ground where my feet were. My limbs grew numb in the cold, my fingers shaking even as I tucked my hands under my armpits.

A slow death was spreading through my body, delivered by the cruel truth of my existence.

I was the voice in Layla’s head, her ‘imaginary friend’ who had been with her since she was old enough to dream up a best friend. I’d stayed with her, unaware my reality was all fabricated to ease her loneliness.

The group of girls Layla left with returned, laughing and covering their heads with jackets as they finished off a few chips. Layla straggled along at the back, not quite in on the joke, having missed the details of it due to the hammering rain.

I called out to her, “Layla! Layla, I’m over here!”

For a moment, it seemed like she was just going to continue past me until she hesitated.

“I’ll catch up with you guys later,” she told her friends, though barely any heard her, and she made her way to me.

***

Temporary relief relaxes my limbs, like forget-me-nots unfurling as they flower – Layla can still see me. My ease doesn’t last long, as I tense up again once I notice the reluctance in her eyes.

I frown, half unable to think of any words to console her, half unsure if she’d even be able to hear me. All I can do is smile wanly; I know this is the goodbye I never thought would happen.

Layla doesn’t say a word, but her eyes dart left and right, probably terrified of being seen talking to an empty space. I reach my hand out yet freeze when she shakes her head jerkily.

I drop my hand and my soul aches at the distance between us, despite our proximity.

I don’t know how long we stay standing there, getting drenched by the rain, even as it eases into a lighter shower. She doesn’t speak, though I keep hoping she will. The ticking of her watch, which she only wears when she’s anxious about staying on schedule, increases in volume.

Figuring she’s probably having the same adjustment to our memories without my presence, I wait for her to make the next move. It’s a painful and drawn-out parting, yet I don’t want it to ever end.

Though Layla’s face hardens, that vein above her left eyebrow raising slightly, her eyes give away her true emotions. Her russet brown spheres glaze over with a grey mist, her tear ducts threatening to overflow her bottom eyelid and create a waterfall down her face.

Seeing Layla on the edge of crying makes my sadness far greater than if I were about to cry. So I nod and smile at her, wordlessly telling her, “It’s okay. You can go.”

“Sorry,” she whispers hoarsely.

Bye, I think and wave as she starts to turn from me.

She hesitates once but doesn’t look back. A half-smile finds my lips; nostalgia and melancholy morphing into something resembling gratitude. We had a good time together.

Just as she’s almost out of sight, I remember the paper in my pocket. “Layla, wait! Hang on a sec!”

I try to follow her, but my legs won’t walk fast enough to catch up with her. The distance between us elongates and stretches until she’s walking far beyond my reach. It hurts to keep trying, so I stop.

With what feels like one of my final efforts in this life, I take the doodle out of my pocket and let it drop onto the rain-soaked ground. I inhale the petrichor scent rising from the warm earth, sensing the warmth of autumn ending and the beginning of wintry coolness. The first seasonal change that I won’t be able to watch by Layla’s side.

My carefully pencilled forget-me-nots bleed into the sodden paper, their delicate grey figures blurring into insignificance and out of existence.