I liked Haize from the start. He was witty, charming, and the greatest person I'd ever seen. There wasn't a day that went by that we didn't meet. We often sat at the pier down by the canal, and he told me about his cat, his trip to Berlin, and his time in the mental institution. Somehow, he had this gift for making even the saddest stories sound like jokes. And the best part was, he always had hope. When his condition worsened and he was admitted again, he wrote me letters. Every day, for three months. Every now and then, he included a few drawings. Haize was like a big brother to me; I liked no one more than him. In the summer, he became more involved with a group of friends, which I left after a while. At some point, Haize came to me, and I immediately noticed that something was different. He denied all my suspicions, but the image of the white powder residue on his nose burned itself into my memory and left a bitter taste on my tongue. Over the months, his behavior toward me changed. At our meetings, he remained silent, stopped joking, and stopped writing me letters. To my surprise, he invited me to his birthday party in November. At first, I didn't want to go, but then a friend persuaded me. Contrary to my expectations, the atmosphere was quite exuberant, and it wasn't long before I was lying in the grass, tipsy and grinning. Everything seemed perfect for the moment. Until Lina arrived. "Haize has swallowed pills. He needs to go to the hospital." Eight words. Eight words that, within seconds, tore my entire perfect world apart. On television, suicide attempts are always portrayed as a big spectacle. Like something that happens loudly and with a lot of excitement. But the moment I realized that my best friend had tried to kill himself, everything was very quiet. It wasn't like any TV series; it wasn't exciting or entertaining. It was just horrible. Looking back, I'd say the worst part of the whole thing wasn't that moment, but the bus ride the next morning. No one said a word; everyone had to process what had happened in their own way. Then, that afternoon, I got the news from Haize. He was fine, and that was the only thing that really mattered to me. Nevertheless, I couldn't take it anymore. That same day, I had a long conversation with him and explained my feelings. All of that happened five months ago. I haven't spoken to Haize since. Every now and then, I reminisce and think about all the plans and visions he once had. I know that drugs weren't the main reason for his downfall, even though I like to convince myself otherwise. It's truly frightening how quickly such a dreamy and honest person can become a quiet being without goals or dreams. My best friend at the time is no longer with us. But maybe he's making someone else happy with a little letter from the nuthouse.
