White Sands, I’m Not Lost Anymore

CONTENT WARNING

This story contains themes of suicidal ideation, death by suicide, mental health struggles, and emotional trauma.

While the narrative is written with care and a surreal, poetic tone, the subject matter may be distressing to some readers — especially those currently struggling with their mental health or grieving a loss.

Please read with caution and care. Take breaks if you need to. Skip it entirely if that’s what your heart needs today.

•••

You wake up without realizing you’d fallen asleep. No alarm. No noise. No panic. Just a strange, weightless hush. The kind of silence that feels… soft.

Beneath you, sand — smooth and white and warm, like sunlit sheets.

You blink up at a sky that shouldn’t exist:
a sun that glows like a full moon,
a horizonless expanse,
not blue, not gray — just a color you can’t name but instantly trust.

Your first thought is not “Where am I?”
It’s “Oh…”
Like you’ve landed in the pause between two thoughts.
Like something that was squeezing your chest has finally let go.

You sit up. Your hand sinks into the sand. It’s hot to the touch — a reminder you’re not dreaming.
But when you stand, barefoot, the ground turns cool beneath your soles.
You take a step. No imprint. No footprint.
The desert accepts you without asking questions.

You glance around.
And there she is.
Your dog.
Waiting. Tail thumping. Mouth open in a goofy grin like she’s been here this whole time, just waiting for you to catch up.
Your throat clenches. You whisper her name, unsure if your voice still works.
She bounds forward anyway — because of course she knows you.
Of course she remembers.
She licks your knee. She spins in wild circles.
You drop to your knees in the sand — heat blooming across your legs — and bury your face in her fur.
She smells like home. She smells like how Earth should have felt.
She doesn’t ask what happened. She doesn’t need to.

Because this place isn’t about questions.
It’s about after.

And you’ve finally made it.

You don’t speak.
Not because you can’t.
But because for the first time, nothing is demanding anything from you.

No shift to cover.
No mask to wear.
No reply to send.
No body to pull forward when the heart won’t follow.

You sit. The sand sighs beneath you — warm, but not punishing. You let your fingers rake tiny lines through it, and the sand moves like it’s listening. Like it’s never been asked to carry a girl this quiet before, and it doesn’t want to break her spell.

You feel your dog’s heartbeat under your hand.

Steady. Alive.

She curls beside you like she used to when storms came — like she’s still protecting you from something.

Except…
there’s nothing left to protect you from.

The wind doesn’t push. It waits. It waits for you to decide where to go. You tilt your face to the sky. There’s no sunburn here. Just heat that doesn’t hurt. Light that doesn’t glare. A kind of brightness that makes you feel seen without being examined.

You realize you can’t hear your own thoughts — not the old ones, not the sharp ones.

The ones that used to shout:
You don’t belong here.
You’re too much.
They only pretend to care.

Gone.

In their place:
stillness.
Not peace. Not yet. But the quiet that makes peace possible.

A cloud passes overhead. Except — it’s not a cloud. It’s a memory. Soft and slow like a silk scarf drifting across the sky. But not now. Not yet. You’re not ready to look.

You whisper aloud,
“I made it.”

The dunes echo nothing back. Not because they didn’t hear you — but because they agree. You did.

•••

The wind stirs — but only when you do. It rises when you stand, quiet when you hesitate, and shifts as if trying to guide you somewhere, like it knows what comes next.

Your dog trots ahead, paws barely indenting the surface. She pauses at the top of a steep dune — massive, symmetrical, glittering in the moonlight sun. You follow, breath held, feet crunching sand that feels impossibly smooth.

And there — at the summit, half-buried in white — skis.
Yours. But not any you’ve ever owned.
They gleam. Iridescent, impossible.
Not plastic, not metal — something in between.
There are no bindings. No poles.
No buckles to click, no boots to wrestle.
Just invitation.

You step onto them like you’re stepping into a memory you loved so much you forgot how much it hurt to lose it.

They fit. Of course they do.

The slope ahead curves like a question mark, and the sand beneath the skis packs itself tightly, becoming something between snow and velvet. No resistance. No drag. Just the subtle hum of readiness.

Your dog barks once, as if to say,
Go.

And you do.

At first, it feels wrong.
The air is warm, the sand should scatter — But instead, it catches you, carries you, cradles you in descent.

Your body moves like it never forgot. Hips shifting, arms out, knees bending gently as instinct takes over.

The slope winds — not downward like a fall, but outward, like a ribbon unspooling into possibility.
You’re not falling. You’re flying. The desert flashes past in glints of silver and ghost-light. The wind kisses your face but never cuts.
You laugh — sharp and unguarded, because your laugh doesn’t echo here. It resonates. Like it belongs.

As you descend, something strange begins to happen:
the dunes on either side begin to shift.

They form vague outlines — like bleachers at a ski race, but empty. Then… not empty. Shadows. Figures. People from your life. Not clear enough to speak, but just real enough to feel.

You don’t panic. They don’t judge. They’re just there — witnesses. Some of them wave. Some of them just watch, eyes soft.
You let them.
Because now, for the first time, you’re not skiing to prove anything. You’re skiing for you.

You reach the bottom.

You come to a stop not with a crash, but a kiss of stillness. Like the sand wanted you to make it. Like it always knew you would.

You tilt your head back and whisper,
“I remember this.”

And the wind answers,
“So do I.”

•••

After the descent, the dunes soften. They stop rising so tall, stop curling so dramatically. The wind hushes to a gentle breath, and even your dog starts walking more slowly — nose low, like she senses something important coming.

And then you see it.

A clearing.

A bowl in the landscape.

Still dune, still sand, but somehow more still than the rest — like a room without walls.

In the center: envelopes.
Hundreds of them.
Maybe thousands.
They flutter gently in the warm breeze, half-buried in the white.
They aren’t pristine.
They’re worn — creased at the corners, tear-stained, lipstick-smeared, ink-run and weathered.
Some are open.
Some are sealed with wax, stickers, hope.
Some are torn and clumsily taped back together.

You know them.

They’re yours.

The things you never said. Never sent. Never wrote down but thought about until your throat burned.

Your feet move on their own.

You reach for one at random.

Your handwriting.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t stronger.”
“I love you but you broke me.”
“I needed someone and you left me.”
“Please, please, please notice I’m not okay.”

You read them slowly. You don’t cry. Not because it doesn’t hurt — But because here, in this place, hurt has somewhere to go.

You pick a spot. Drop to your knees. Start burying them — one by one — beneath the sand. Not to erase them. But to plant them. The sand shimmers around your fingers. As you press the final envelope into the earth, something happens. The ground ripples.

And then:
Blooms.
Not normal flowers.
Not earthly flowers.
These are flowers shaped like feelings.
Like sentences that never got endings.
One glows violet like regret.
One pulses pink like a first kiss you didn’t believe you deserved.
One is pale blue and translucent like your fifth-grade diary.
They grow upward in spirals, blooming toward the strange sun-moon above, and you watch them become beautiful.

Everything you were too scared to say — Now something you can look at.
Touch.
Smell.
Forgive.

Your dog sits beside you, watching the flowers like they’re fireworks. You lay back in the sand — hot on your spine, cool under your knees — and for the first time, the horizon shows itself in the distance. Just a soft curve of white, outlined in neon pink. You’re not done yet. But something heavy has been laid down. And the wind, like a friend, brushes your hair away from your face and lets you rest.

•••

It doesn’t happen with fanfare. No dramatic thunderclap, no portal in the sky. Just a shift in the air — like the dunes exhale. You’re sitting beneath a sand blossom — one that grew from the letter that said, “Please forgive me for disappearing.”

Its petals shimmer like tears catching sunlight. And then you hear it.
A laugh.
Familiar.

Sarah’s.

You turn, already crying. She’s standing at the edge of the clearing, barefoot, arms crossed over a hoodie that you’ve seen a million times. The wind lifts her hair, and she squints at you like she’s not sure if she’s dreaming or not.

“You look like shit,” she says, but her voice breaks on the last word.

You laugh — really laugh, even though your chest caves in with it.

You run to her. You expect to pass through her like fog. But she catches you. Wraps her arms around you like she never stopped waiting for this. You both just stand there, swaying in place.

Eventually, you pull back.
Look her in the eye.
And say it.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t stay.”

She doesn’t flinch. She just nods. Eyes wet. Voice raw.
“I know.”

You collapse again, forehead to her shoulder.
“I tried so hard. I really did.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t want to leave you.”
“I know.”
“It’s not your fault.”
“I know.”

The wind stirs.

Around you, the sand reshapes itself gently — forming two chairs made of woven light and memory.

You sit, side by side. You talk for what feels like hours. Maybe days. Time doesn’t behave here. You remind her how she saved you over and over without ever realizing it. She tells you about the day she finds out you’re gone. How she screamed. How she cried until her ribs ached. How she wanted to dig up the sky just to get you back.

But she also tells you:
“I’ll forgive you.”
“I’ll write you letters you’ll never read.”
“I’ll light candles for you every year. And I’ll never let the world forget your name.”

You don’t try to argue.

You just whisper:
“You were my person. Always.”

She smiles. And then the wind lifts again — gentler this time. It’s time. She hugs you one last time, forehead pressed to yours.
“You deserved better than the world gave you,” she says.
“But I hope you find it here.”

And with that —
She’s gone.

But not in the way that hurts.
She’s gone like a song that ends, but you’re still humming it.
Gone like light that lingers behind your eyes after you close them.
Gone like love that outlives the body.

•••

You don’t know how long you’ve been walking. The dunes blur together — soft white silence stretching in all directions. The air hums, and then you feel it: a shift. Not in temperature, but in time.

You round a ridge, and there it is.

A frozen lake — impossibly real, impossibly still — carved into the desert like it always belonged. The ice is glass-clear, reflecting the sky above, which flickers with memories like constellations: small, pulsing, true.

She’s already there. Skating.

You know her immediately. The first girl you ever loved. Not from youth, but from something closer. Something earned. She glides like she belongs here. Like movement is her native language.

And somehow, after all this time, she still wears her sadness the same way — lightly, like a cardigan she never quite takes off.

You step onto the ice. It doesn’t crack. It welcomes you.

She turns slowly. Sees you. You wait for the ache — but it doesn’t come. Just the strange, familiar warmth of what might’ve been.

You skate toward her — unsteady, unsure. She meets you halfway. No rush. No words yet. Her green eyes are gentler than you remember.

“You made it,” she says.
You laugh, quiet.
“Took me long enough.”

You circle each other for a while — like old friends at a reunion they never thought they’d get. The ice sings beneath you.

You think about your old workplace. Late nights. Flashes of laughter.
The times she’d look at you like you were the only person in the world who saw her.
You always did.
But timing was never either of your strong suit.

She slows.
“I still think about you,” she says.
You nod.
“Me too. We were… something.”
“Yeah,” she says. “We just didn’t know how to be it yet.”

You smile. It doesn’t hurt anymore.

You hold out your hand.
“Skate with me?”
She takes it.
Of course she does.

You move together for a long time — silent, balanced.

No confessions.

No apologies.

Just movement.

And maybe that’s what this is for:
A goodbye that didn’t need words.
A love that never got to be forever but was still real.

You skate until the sky dims, and when she finally lets go, it doesn’t feel like a loss.

It feels like peace.

•••

You don’t remember lying down. But now you’re on your back, in the softest sand you’ve ever felt — warm beneath you, cool at your neck, forming perfectly around your body like a cradle carved for you by time itself. Your dog curls beside you, breathing slow.

The sky is clear.

And then it shifts.
A ripple, like light through water.

And suddenly, the sky becomes a mirror.
Not a flat one —
but curved, infinite, alive.

It doesn’t show your reflection.
It shows your life.
But not the moments you feared you’d be judged for.
Not the ones the world picked apart.
It shows the tiny mercies.

You see yourself — tired, unsure — holding the door for a homeless man at McDonald’s. He smiled like you handed him a golden ticket. You just nodded. You never knew that was the last time someone looked him in the eye before he passed. The sky knows.

You see the bright afternoon light. The little plastic spoon. Your ex-girlfriend’s Grandma. Her cardigan tucked around her arms as you sat across from her, pretending it wasn’t awkward, trying to make her laugh. She did. You see the softness in her eyes. She knew. She knew how much you were carrying. But she let the ice cream melt before ever saying a word.

The fluorescent lights buzzed. You sat at the counter, watched her pour coffee like she’d been doing it for decades. Your ex-girlfriend’s Mom. You always tipped $20. She always tried to give it back.

You remember thinking:
“She deserved a better daughter.”

But in the sky, all it shows is you noticing. The tenderness. The way you tried to make up for what wasn’t yours to fix.

A flurry of memories swirl like leaves in the wind. Faces. So many faces. Refugees who didn’t speak your language, but clutched your hand anyway. Prisoners who cried quietly when you asked if they wanted a blanket. People in treatment who couldn’t look you in the eye until they could. You see your badge. Your stethoscope. The paper cup of meds in your palm. But the mirror doesn’t show procedures or charts. It shows the warmth in your eyes. The way you said their names like they mattered. The way you reminded them — without saying it — that they were still human.

A daffodil field. A cemetery. A lake on a hot July day. You see yourself behind the scenes — cheering people on as they nervously posed, hyping them up like it was second nature. You remember laughing so hard you almost cried. You always told everyone how beautiful they looked. You meant it. The sky knows.

Your head tilted in the sink at the barber’s shop. Dye gloves. Towels. The smell of Pulp Riot hair dye.
You’re giggling.
Saying things like —
“Make me look like heartbreak incarnate.”
“Make me feel like a new person.”
“Make me look like a lesbian.”
She rolled her eyes, but she did it. Because she loved you. And the sky shows the way you both laughed when the color came out chaotic and perfect. Because it wasn’t about the shade. It was about the moment.

You. Looking up. Watching all of it. No narration. No correction. Just witness. You’re not judged. You’re not graded. You’re seen.

And somehow, that’s enough.

The sky folds in on itself. The mirror fades.

You breathe.
You close your eyes.
And whisper,
“Thank you for showing me I mattered.”

•••

The wind is still when she arrives. Not silent — just holding its breath.

You’re sitting near the edge of the letter field, where the last bloom has unfurled.

Your dog lifts her head, tail wagging once, and you know.

You turn. She’s there. Your mother. Not younger. Not different. Not reimagined.
Just… her — exactly as she is in your memory.

She doesn’t rush to you.
She just looks at you first, like she’s trying to memorize the moment.

You blink.
She smiles.
“I knew you’d be somewhere beautiful.”

You almost collapse from the sound of her voice.
It hits different here.
Like it’s made of every lullaby she ever sang, every “be safe” she whispered when you left the house, every time she didn’t know what to say but hugged you anyway.

You reach for her.
She steps forward.
Lets you.
You fold into her arms like a child.
Like someone who was always almost okay in the world, but never fully safe.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
“I’m so sorry I left.”

Her arms tighten. Not in punishment. Not in shame. But in love so dense it could stop time.
“I know,” she says.
“I’m sorry too. I didn’t know how to protect you. Not from everything.”

You both stand in it — the ache. That impossible truth that love wasn’t enough to save you, but it was still real. So real.

Eventually, she pulls back and holds your face in her hands. Her thumbs wipe at tears that don’t seem to fall here but still exist.
“You don’t have to hurt anymore,” she says.
“I wanted you to stay, but I understand why you couldn’t.”

You start to speak. She stops you.
“No guilt,” she says softly. “Just… show me where you live now.”

So you do.

You walk slowly, hand in hand.
She admires the dunes.
The mirrored sky.
She kneels beside one of the flowered letters and presses her palm to the sand.

“You’ve been busy,” she says, smiling.
“I’ve been healing.”
She nods.
“I can feel it.”

When it’s time, you both know.
You walk her to the spot where the breeze begins to shimmer — where visitors fade back to their world and leave you to yours.
Before she goes, she turns to you one last time.
“You’ve always been magic,” she says.
“Even when the world made you forget.”

She kisses your forehead. And for just a moment, you feel like a kid again.
Held.
Safe.
Loved in full.

And then —
she’s gone.
But she doesn’t take the warmth with her.

•••

Author’s Note

This story is fiction, but it’s also personal. I wrote it during a time when staying alive felt like a question I didn’t know how to answer. When the ache of being misunderstood, unseen, or simply too much — for work, for love, for this world — was louder than any hope I could hear.

This is not a story about healing through survival. It’s a story about what comes after. About imagining a place where the weight is gone. Where nothing is demanded of you. Where your softness is sacred, your kindness is remembered, and your pain no longer defines you.

It is a story about death by suicide.
It does not romanticize it.
It does not justify it.
But it does name it honestly — and refuses to let the story end in shame.

If you are struggling right now, please know:

🖤 You are not alone.

🖤 You are not a burden.

🖤 You do not have to feel like this forever.

•••

📞 Need to talk to someone?

📍U.S. RESOURCES
• 988 Suicide & Crisis Lifeline: Call or text 988
988lifeline.org — Free, 24/7 support for anyone in distress

• Trans Lifeline: 877–565–8860
Peer support run by and for trans people

• The Trevor Project: 1–866–488–7386 or text START to 678–678
LGBTQIA+ support for young people

📍Outside the U.S.?
Visit findahelpline.com for free, confidential support resources in your country.

You don’t have to explain everything. You don’t have to be “bad enough” to deserve help. You just have to be human. If you are still here: That is not failure. That is courage. Reach out. Let someone help you carry the sharp edges.

And if you’ve lost someone — to suicide, to depression, to the heaviness this world sometimes demands we carry — I hope this story offers you a gentle place to imagine their peace.

Thank you for reading.
Thank you for still being here.

With love,
Missy Matchstick