the moment that changed everything

love, loss, vanilla, and black licorice

DISCLAIMER *this is a suuuuuper heavy piece*

I hope you’re finding comfort in the people and places that feel like home.

If you didn’t know, I am in a writing club, and this non-fiction essay's prompt was “the moment that changed everything.”

I’ve been thinking a lot about pivotal moments—the ones that carve themselves into your soul and change you forever.

My life has been shaped by many such moments—being removed from my home and mother by Child Protective Services in a single day and a single conversation, forcing me to leave everything I knew behind and move to Spotswood as a sophomore. More recently, when my ex confessed he didn’t see a future with me, I packed my life into boxes and drove down to LA, needing to start over.

But this moment… it didn’t just change me. It altered the fabric of my world—my friendships, my understanding of love, and how I navigate relationships even now. It also reshaped everyone who lived through it alongside me.

This isn’t just a story about me and my friends.

This is a story for a friend who has ever lost a friend.

Here is the “The Moment that Changed Everything”

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The crisp feeling in the air lingered and swirled about. The air was cold and damp, almost as if death itself could seep into your bones and moisten the tissue with each potent exhale. It kissed skin to inspire goosebumps, unsettled stomachs with herds of butterflies and closed throats with force. It was 7 pm and the night was as young as the year–January. The sun lowered in the sky, as it always does but I wouldn’t recognize it again for many months. A gloomy shadow of bats flying overhead would soon become my blanket of comfort.

The roads were freezing over as breath became visible, just when the phone rang.

The night before was full of celebration and champagne.

Spirits of excitement and dread swirled around the air, palpable enough to taste. Vanilla and black licorice melted and mixed, dropping on each of our tongues. Hope and loss, Love and jealousy–Two things could be true at once. Little did we know this would be the last taste of vanilla for a while, one of comfort, warmth, and safety. Eventually, the gunk of licorice would overtake our mouths, stain teeth, choke hearts, and crush souls.

My lively group of friends convened to send off the sweetheart to her luscious dream of a life in Hawaii. Beca, she was my partner in crime. My clothes were hers, and her family, mine. We were inseparable. As happy as I was to see her go, the pain still settled and nestled into my gut, creating a home there with no relief in sight. Two things could be true at once. I could be proud of my best friend and also resent her for leaving me behind. The taste of black licorice made its presence known again.

The arms that wrapped around each other that night were warm, full of feelings of sun and gratitude. Time passed without resistance as we shared our favorite memories. Laughs and snorts filled the room. My cheeks flushed red with alcohol and the warmth of remembering as we reminisced over past trips. Having the privilege to travel with your friend group is a dream come true, and one none of us took for granted. Some of my favorite memories came from these chaotic getaways. We were young, reckless, and naive like kids. Sweet, warm, and innocent like vanilla. Just as we should have been. We did everything right.

Our last vacation together was to Arizona. We road-tripped through the Grand Canyon and Sedona, occasionally stopping for tarot card readings, chasing wild lizards, and tearing through desert trails on ATVs. Sun-drenched days blurred into fire-lit nights, and even when petty bickering surfaced, the love between us never wavered.

That final trip left us a little frayed but still intact. On Beca's send-off night, Rocky, a vital member of our group and one of my closest friends, sincerely apologized for any friction between us. I knew it took strength for him to swallow his pride, and I thanked him. Something about this apology felt like destined closure, something I would forever be seeking if not given. The faint memory of vanilla surfaced, as if forgiveness carried the scent of something warm and familiar.

I allowed the lovely flavors of vanilla to seep off me onto another. My arms wrapped around Rocky three times while expressing my love and gratitude for him.

He had been my first friend when I moved into town. I’d see him waiting at my locker to guide me to classes, his face lighting up when I committed to plans. His aura was orange with a hint of lime green—eccentric, authentic, and open-minded. I found him fascinating. Over a couple of years, he became one of my best friends. One so close that I could imagine flying to visit him abroad and getting to know his future children.

My feelings for him secretly deepened into confusion, questioning whether I loved him in a way different than I let on. I didn’t realize until those three hugs that I couldn’t live without him. Drunken thoughts swirled in my head: “Did he know how much I cared for him? How did I get so lucky to know him? At least I will still have Rocky when Beca moves away.” Relief softened the tightness in my chest. In that frigid January darkness, I found a fragile glimpse of light and hope.

Johnny, the party host, was known as the wild one, the life of every gathering. But beyond the chaos was a generous heart. He lived for these moments—bringing people together, especially our “OGs.” His love for his friends ran deep, and he made sure we felt it that night.

I allowed myself to take this all in as I watched my chosen family melt into one cohesive energy before me, swirling between hints of licorice and vanilla. A wave of gratitude rushed over me for having what we all had: each other.

As we left, I said "goodbye" to Rocky once and “I love you” five times.

Johnny said to me “You’ve got this kid. Trust in yourself” without being prompted. I smiled.

It’s almost like they knew. I look back and think, I should’ve too.

I turned around, into the dark, gloomy night, bats spying overhead, cold air whispering, dark licorice lingering—and things were never the same again. I closed Johnny’s liquor stained door behind me, hearing the giggles and nonsense slowly fade.

The night slipped through our fingers and the next day’s sunset.

It was 7 p.m. when Beca and I got the call.

Crows were peering in on us through her bedroom window, and bats were waiting to make themselves known.

It was one of our best friends on the other line, seemingly in a panic.

My heart was pounding, nerves buzzing, and all of my senses amplified as I saw Beca covering her mouth, phone to ear, white as a ghost, uttering the words: “It’s Rocky.”

I began pushing her, begging for more words, more answers, to tell me it was Rocky on the other line and that it was all a prank.

Her back was against the wall, hand over her mouth and knees buckling as she tried to sputter out through the gunk of licorice seeping through her teeth, “He’s dead. There was a car accident. Johnny was driving.”

At that moment, sticky tar enveloped around my heart, melted throughout my lungs and caused me to choke on the bitter tase as I begged for answers, unable to swallow the reality unfolding.

We stood outside for hours, speechless. Every few minutes that passed in between shallow breaths, hair pulls, and full-body shivers, one of us would ask, “Is this real?”

No feelings would enter our bodies for days to come-numb. Just as the sun wouldn’t shine again for months—dark.

A few hours later, we got another call.

Johnny didn’t make it.

Darkness clung to every breath, bitter and inescapable.

The next day, with no texts or many questions, the lively friends from the night before convened again. Tears were shed, hands were held, and silence ensued. We all spent the week together, scared to be alone and scared to lose another. During this dark stretch of time, we all slowly realized, at different speeds, that it wasn’t a goodbye party for Beca after all, but for Rocky and Johnny instead.

After that night, things were never the same. The same hands that wrapped around champagne bottles now clung tight to one another, walking towards our two friends' caskets.

The church felt black, caving in around me. The bats now hissing loudly in my ear distracted me from all the cliches being told. I couldn’t hear a thing.

I looked down the pew at my friends, something knowing inside of me that this is also a funeral for what was.

There would be no more fun, casual nights together that remained lighthearted. Things would forever be tainted, black as licorice.

What was a willing friendship, was now a deep-rooted trauma bond, that would knot itself so tight and leave a lump of sorrow in each of our backs forever.

Ghosts resembling us would secure the seats from now on at any gathering. We would look at each other with different eyes, seeing what has become tarnished and stained.

The lively friend group melted right through our fingers, and individually, we’d leave black puddles behind, unable to form back to the original states.

One of us would grow to become depressed, lonely, and isolated. His texts would become scarce and the light in his eyes, once trembling with passion, would be stolen and locked away with no key in sight.

Another would forever seek an intoxicating feeling of ecstasy that would never fulfill them, causing them to idle and remain on the same ghost-ridden neighborhood block. They would remain almost exactly the same, reverting backward to habits and people that surely have no benefit.

An innocent, sweet, kid would now not be able to control his addictions any longer, falling down a dangerous pattern of alcoholism, trying to swallow out his pain. The smiles and laughs he would often contribute to the group would now come only from a place of sorrow, if at all.

Some of us would never try to think about it again, growing an avoidant behavior altogether, while others would stew on it in excess. Where does the line get drawn? When is it correct to pay tribute, and when is it right to put them to rest? Anxiety and self-doubt would wiggle their way into every group setting.

And Beca would run away to Hawaii seemingly leaving all of it in the past, including us.

We all grieve in different ways.

I for one would forever be chasing the feeling of love and friendship I had back home. Things would never feel the same again and the prevalent fear of abandonment would taint all of my relationships for a long time, becoming stained with licorice.

The solace I hoped to find in Rocky when Beca left had created a sheer emptiness in my soul for a long while.

Between one going-away party and two funerals, I lost all of my friends for what they once were. The same hands that wrapped around champagne bottles now clung tight to one another, walking toward our two friends’ caskets.

There were never hints of vanilla again—black licorice being the only tastebud we all shared.

It was 7 pm when we got the call. The night was still young—like the lives taken away with it.