Content warning: This story contains subject matter that may be disturbing or upsetting to some readers, including suicide and death. Please proceed with caution.
By Abigail Wilt
A day adorned with toppling gifts wrapped in red paper and strings of gold tinsel. The radio always played the same songs. "Last Christmas" by Wham! was especially loud this year.
But this Christmas Eve, I saw red wrapping in a crimson stripe under a fingernail. Gold tinsel was the charm I compulsively slipped across the delicate chain hugging my neck. Holiday jingles echoed in a metronomic beeping that rolled through stretches of antiseptic hallway.
When someone takes their own life, the act always leaves devastation in its wake. When my boyfriend took his own life on Christmas Eve, I felt an unimaginable pain I will carry for the rest of my life.
A week earlier, we drove to Long Beach. He explained that soon, he had to move back to New Jersey to be with his family, who were struggling. We were ending things to save ourselves the agony of maintaining a long-distance relationship with no clear end in sight. I was on the precipice of opportunities awaiting me post-grad. He didn't want to limit my options by asking me to move to his part of New Jersey, where there wasn't much. I understood and I wasn't upset. In his decision, the last person he considered was himself and that was one of the reasons I loved him, so to soak up every last second together, we took one final trip — to Long Beach.
The place we were staying was a five-minute walk from the beach. We wanted to catch the sunset when we arrived, but it set too quickly. Though, it didn’t stop us from going later that night.
The cold sand swallowed our feet as we followed the sound of crashing waves, rushing in and drawing back in its predictable way. I skipped balletically to the water like a little girl eager to feel its cool shock. It was icy, but tolerable once I wiggled my toes a few flexes. I pulled him to me, letting him feel the chill of the ocean, too. He held me, kissing me warmly on my cheek and then my forehead before raising my hand to his lips. I slung my arms around his neck as we swayed, a soft glow from the moonlight cast overhead. I could see his eyes just enough. They said the usual things, but melted into me more that night.
"There’s no way this is it," I said. "You don't just say goodbye to a love like this. We will find each other again."
"A true love," he said. "This isn’t goodbye."
We caught the sunset the next couple of evenings. Sometimes, we walked the swath of shore while it set, chasing flocks of preying birds or searching for untarnished shells as keepsakes. After the sun set on our last day, we drove back to Phoenix and said goodbye to each other a few hours later.
I cried in his arms, creating wet blots on his shirt. I held his face and kissed him as we sauntered to my front door.
"How many kisses can I give you?" he said.
"Never enough," I choked.
He kissed me one last time, holding me tight and then slipped out the door. Though he was gone, I knew he would return, whether it was a few months later or a year. The next week came and went. I called him and sent a text, no response. He must have wanted space.
Then, I got a message from his brother. He explained that my boyfriend wasn't returning anyone's calls or texts and asked if I'd heard from him. I said I hadn't. I became worried and confused. He was supposed to get on a plane on Monday. This wasn't like him.
I called and texted again — no response. I tried persistently over the next 24 hours and would receive nothing. Concern tumulted into actionable fear until his brother relayed an email he had sent to his mother explaining he was ending his life today — Dec. 24.
Dread ravaged my body. I was clawing at every corner trying to find him before anything happened. I sent my family sprawling across Phoenix, checking every location we'd been together. As I was on the way to our first date spot, I got another text from his brother saying that he was at the hospital in critical condition.
I convulsed, my body intractably trembling. We swung the car around and sped to the hospital. My vision narrowed. I was gasping for air. Every muscle in my body braced until we pulled into the hospital. I jumped out of the car and barreled toward the emergency room. They directed me to the ICU and said he was there. It felt like I wasn’t moving fast enough.
A nurse confirmed what his brother already told me, but said I couldn’t see him because I wasn't family. I insisted that I was the only person he knew in Phoenix, but legally, they couldn't budge. I felt helpless. He was alone just like he was when he made this decision and I was marooned on the other side of the wall.
After pleading with his family to allow me to be with him, they granted permission. I was escorted to his room — 285.
I clung to disbelief until I rounded the corner. It was him, the man I loved, lying unconscious, his head wrapped in a bloody gauze. A circus of tubes and wires extended from all parts of his body, and a machine was breathing for him. I blinked away streams of tears and reached for his hand, weaving his fingers through mine. Just last week, this hand was resting warmly on my thigh.
I traced the back of his hand with my thumb. I told him that I was there and that I loved him and that I wasn't going to leave. For eight hours, I sat beside him, holding his hand for as long as I could. I ran my eyes over every detail: his hairs, his creases, the shape of his fingernails, which were now crusted with blood. I didn’t want to forget.
On Christmas, his family arrived, assessed his condition and decided to let him pass.
On Dec. 26, they tested his organs and deemed them viable for donation.
On Dec. 28, he died.
During one evening in Long Beach, we laid on the shore, side by side, our hands intertwined. The molten hues from the setting sun shrouded us. They contrasted his blue eyes. It felt like they were reaching for me. He placed his palm on my face.
"We will be on this beach, together, again. I know that," he said.
"I do too," I whispered. "I love you."
"I love you," he said.
If you or someone you know is struggling with mental health, visit 988lifeline.org or text 988 for help. For campus resources available 24/7, visit https://eoss.asu.edu/counseling. ASU's EMPACT line is 480-921-1006 and is available 24/7.
Edited by Leah Mesquita, Natalia Jarrett and Abigail Wilt. This story is part of The Love Issue, which was released on February 25, 2026. See the entire publication here.
Reach Abigail Wilt at amwilt@asu.edu and follow her on Instagram at @abigail.wilt.
Like State Press Magazine on Facebook, follow @statepressmag on X and Instagram and read our releases on Issuu.
Abigail Wilt is a managing editor for State Press Magazine. She is a fourth-year student majoring in journalism and mass communication with a minor in English literature. She was a fellow for Carnegie-Knight News21 for 2025 and is currently a health disparities reporter for Cronkite News. Formerly, she was a magazine reporter, visuals editor and photographer for The State Press.
