We Were Supposed to Die Together

The worst moment of my life wasn’t taking the suicide dose.

It was sitting in the waiting area and realizing Ben might not take his.

That felt worse than dying.

Ben and I have been together since we were 15. Twenty-two years. He was my first boyfriend and he never stopped being my safest place. I’ve always been anxious and intense and afraid of things other people don’t even notice. Haunted houses, dark basements, clowns, mannequins. Ben always walked in front of me and reached back for my hand. I never had to go in alone.

When we lived in the city he worked odd jobs and didn’t worry about money. I worried enough for both of us. I worked constantly and felt like something bad was always about to happen. He told me I overreacted and that everything would work out.

Eventually he found a job in finance because he got tired of barely making rent and feeling stuck. He said he wanted a life that felt secure. Around the same time I finally got out of a job that had been grinding me down for years and found something better.

Somewhere along the way I got steadier and he got more tense. He started working constantly. He stopped joking as much. Sometimes he’d sit with his laptop open late at night even when he wasn’t doing anything. He checked things twice. Sometimes three times.

Still, we got what we always wanted.

We bought a house. Quiet street. Clean air compared to the city. The kind of place we used to look at and assume belonged to people with easier lives.

I got pregnant not long after we moved in.

Ben hugged me hard when I told him. His arms felt tight around me. I remember thinking he seemed different.

Around that time everything outside kept getting worse. The air advisories got more frequent. Some days there was a strange metallic smell. Food didn’t taste right anymore. Nothing dramatic. Just a steady decline that people tried not to talk about.

Eventually the voluntary termination programs were introduced. They were described as a responsible option if conditions kept deteriorating.

Ben and I talked about it quietly and practically.

One night I said if it got bad enough we should go together.

He agreed immediately.

I wasn’t afraid of death if Ben was there. The idea of the two of us lying next to each other with his arms around me felt peaceful. It was the only version of dying I could accept. I couldn’t imagine stepping into something unknown without him beside me.

By the time I was seven months pregnant we made the appointment.

I wasn’t sure it was right to bring a baby into a world that felt like it was slowly collapsing. I tried to picture raising a child in those conditions and I couldn’t see anything stable ahead. Going together still felt like the most controlled decision we could make.

The clinic was quiet and organized. They took me first.

The dose came in a small glass vial.

The liquid inside was perfectly clear.

I remember thinking it looked too ordinary to end a life.

I drank it because Ben was going to drink his right after me and we had already decided.

Afterward they handed me a death certificate printed on thick linen paper with my name already on it and the date blank. It felt official and unreal at the same time.

Then I went back into the waiting area.

Ben was still sitting there. I had already taken it.

That was when the fear started.

Not dying.

Being alone when it happened.

I tried to imagine the dose working while he was still alive and sitting next to me.

I tried to imagine slipping into death without him.

It felt unbearable.

When he went in for his turn I sat completely still and tried not to panic.

He came out a few minutes later.

We left together.

In the car I asked if he took it and he said yes.

Later that night he admitted he hadn’t.

He said he couldn’t do it. He said he froze and realized he wasn’t ready. He sounded embarrassed more than anything else.

I remember sitting there and realizing that I had crossed into something alone that we were supposed to cross together.

That was the worst feeling I’ve ever had.

Not betrayal exactly.

Not anger.

Just the loneliness of realizing he stepped back.

That night I told him I didn’t want to die anymore. I wanted to raise our son. I wanted us to live if living was still possible.

He agreed with that part easily.

The next morning I called the clinic and told them I had taken the dose. The woman on the phone said there had been supply issues and that what I received was probably not authentic. She said if nothing had happened yet then it likely wouldn’t.

One week passed.

Nothing happened.

Two weeks passed.

Nothing happened.

Ben kept telling me everything was fine.

It was sitting in that waiting room knowing that I might have to enter death without him.

We’ve been together most of our lives. He has always been the person who walks beside me into anything frightening. I never learned how to face things alone.

The clinic told me the dose was probably not authentic.

But sometimes when the baby moves, it feels strangely slow.

Like something inside me is waiting.

I still don’t know what to believe.

I feel normal. The baby keeps moving. Life goes on like nothing happened.

But sometimes when I think back to that waiting room I still feel the same cold panic.

I can still see Ben sitting there while I had already taken it.

If the dose had been real, I would have entered eternity alone.

And that is the only part that still feels unbearable.

Because I never imagined eternity as a place you go by yourself.

I always thought Ben would be there with his arms around me.

I was supposed to go with him.

I still don’t know whether the clinic was telling the truth.