TASH’S POV

My adorable puppy, Poppa, lives for the thrill of eating and dancing. On the 20th of June, I watched Big I imitate Poppa.

That day, Big I, after unwrapping his gift, leaped from the green-coloured sofa in the master bedroom to the bed. His hands reached for the sky, tongue playfully hanging out, and his eyes gazing at the ceiling while he jumped on the bed. He was performing the Poppa celebration dance, an embarrassing yet endearing expression of his joy.

It was our anniversary, and despite my two-week-long efforts to plan a surprise party that ultimately failed, I had opted to spend a fortune on a lilac-coloured shirt he couldn't stop raving about since our last vacation. The shirt had a hefty price tag, but it felt right to buy it for him, simply for being an amazing boyfriend. He never took off that shirt and sadly, that was the last time I saw him laugh.

Last week, I was at Big I's place. I had been out of the state for a couple of months, and I thought it would be nice to take a leave and see him. I was going to break "the big news" to him, and I couldn't do it over the phone.

When I returned, an eerie unease lingered in the air, and it greeted me at the door in a condescending manner. This was a stark departure from the usual warmth of home, carrying with it a heavy scent of pain.

I walked into the room, bags in my hand and a smile on my face, and in less than a second, my entire world came crashing down into an irreparable mosaic of shattered fragments.

Big I was sprawled on the floor, in his lilac shirt, surrounded by numerous discarded syringes on the carpet. And what did he leave for me? 

A crumpled piece of paper, five hundred words long, saying one thing: "I didn't do it."