The house was dark inside, except for the bright flashes from a TV that had been left on. I called his name, but the only other voice I heard was Ryan Seacrest's, coming from the Times Square broadcast on TV. My heart pounded as I followed the sound into the living room, worried about what I was going to find there.
In the eerie, flickering light, I saw him lying on the couch. One hand was hanging limply over the side. His eyes were closed, his mouth half open. In that instant, I knew he had to be dead.
As I came closer to the couch, my eyes swept over the scene, taking in the two pill containers sitting on the coffee table, along with an open bottle of tequila. All the breath rushed out of me as I sank to my knees at his side, looking down at his body in dismay. "Oh god," I whispered. "Why would you do this to yourself?"
But that was a stupid question to ask. I already knew the answer. Of course I knew why, and in that moment, I realized it was as much my fault as it was his.