Goodbye Tyler

I was able to say goodbye before he died

The cafeteria hummed with the usual chaos of a middle school lunch period. Trays clattered, voices overlapped in a cacophony of laughter and shouts, and the air carried the faint smell of overcooked pizza and spilled milk. I sat at the end of a long, sticky table, my nose buried in a dog-eared copy of The Hobbit. Or at least, I pretended to read. The words blurred on the page, my focus hijacked by an inexplicable, almost primal urge that had been gnawing at me all morning.


It was ridiculous, really. I wanted—needed—to give Tyler a bear hug. Tyler, of all people. He wasn’t my best friend or even someone I talked to regularly. He was just… Tyler. Loud, goofy, always at the center of his friend group, cracking jokes that made even the sternest teachers smirk.


We’d exchanged maybe a dozen words all semester, mostly about homework or dodgeball in gym. Yet, since I’d woken up that morning, this bizarre compulsion to wrap my arms around him had grown stronger, like a tide pulling me toward something I couldn’t name.


I shifted in my seat, gripping the edges of my book tighter. My heart raced, and my palms felt clammy. What is wrong with me? I thought. I tried to focus on Bilbo’s encounter with Gollum, but the urge surged again, sharp and insistent, like a voice whispering, Do it. Now. I glanced across the cafeteria to where Tyler stood with his friends, his red hoodie a bright spot in the crowd. He was laughing, tossing a crumpled napkin at someone. The sight made the feeling unbearable.


This is insane, I told myself. You can’t just walk up to someone and hug them for no reason. He’ll think you’re a weirdo. But the longer I resisted, the heavier the urge became, like a weight pressing on my chest. I couldn’t explain it, but a tiny part of me wondered if I’d regret ignoring it. What the hell, I thought finally. It’s the last day before winter break. If it’s awkward, I won’t see him for two weeks.


The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch. Kids surged toward the cafeteria doors, forming a messy line to head back to class. I stuffed my book into my backpack, my decision made. My legs felt wobbly as I stood, but I forced myself to move, weaving through the crowd until I was just a few steps behind Tyler. He was joking with his friend Jake, his voice carrying over the din. My heart pounded so loudly I was sure everyone could hear it.


“Hey, Tyler,” I said, my voice shakier than I’d hoped. He turned, his eyebrows raised in mild surprise. Before I could overthink it, I opened my arms wide, the universal signal for a hug. For a split second, I braced for rejection, expecting him to laugh or dodge me. But then, to my shock, Tyler’s face broke into a grin, and he mirrored my gesture, stepping forward with his arms outstretched.


We collided in a clumsy, heartfelt hug. His hoodie smelled faintly of laundry detergent and the outdoors, and for a moment, the chaos of the cafeteria faded. I don’t know why, but as we hugged, a lump rose in my throat. My eyes stung, and before I could stop myself, I whispered, “Goodbye, Tyler.” The words felt heavy, final, like they’d been waiting to escape all day.


We pulled apart, and Tyler gave me a curious look, still smiling. “Uh, see ya, man,” he said, clearly puzzled but not unkind. I mumbled something incoherent and scurried to the back of the line, my face burning. Behind me, Jake and a couple of Tyler’s friends started teasing, their voices carrying. “Goodbye, Tyler!” one of them mimicked, laughing. “What was that about?” I kept my head down, pretending to adjust my backpack straps, but a strange calm settled over me. The urge was gone, replaced by a quiet certainty that I’d done something important, even if I didn’t understand why.


That afternoon, the school buzzed with the restless energy of the last day before winter break. Kids swapped Secret Santa gifts, teachers handed out candy canes, and everyone talked about their plans—ski trips, video game marathons, family visits. I didn’t see Tyler again before the final bell, but his red hoodie flashed in my mind as I boarded the bus home.


Two weeks later, the first day back after break, the air in school felt wrong. Heavy. I noticed it the moment I stepped off the bus. Groups of kids stood in tight clusters, their voices hushed. Some were crying. Teachers moved through the halls with grim faces, their usual chatter replaced by clipped whispers. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and headed toward homeroom, a knot forming in my stomach.


In the classroom, my friend Sarah grabbed my arm before I could sit down. Her eyes were red-rimmed. “Did you hear about Tyler?” she asked, her voice trembling.


“What?” I said, my heart lurching. “Hear what?”


She told me in halting words, piecing together the story that was spreading like wildfire through the school. Over the break, Tyler and his older brother had gone out on their family’s boat, somewhere off the coast. A freak wave, or maybe a slip—no one was sure—had sent his brother into the freezing water. Tyler didn’t hesitate. He dove in after him, fighting the current to keep his brother afloat. He succeeded. His brother was pulled back onto the boat, shivering but alive.


Tyler wasn’t so lucky. The water was too cold, the waves too strong. By the time help arrived, he was gone.


I stood there, Sarah’s words echoing in my head, feeling like the floor had dropped out from under me. The room spun. I sank into my chair, my mind replaying that moment in the cafeteria. The urge. The hug. The inexplicable “Goodbye, Tyler.” I hadn’t known—couldn’t have known—but somehow, I’d said goodbye. A real goodbye. The kind that mattered.


The rest of the day passed in a blur. Teachers tried to keep lessons going, but no one was listening. Kids shared stories about Tyler—his terrible puns, his obsession with skateboarding, the time he snuck a whoopee cushion into math class. I stayed quiet, my thoughts tangled. I kept thinking about how I’d almost ignored that strange prompting, how I’d almost stayed in my seat, safe behind my book. If I had, I wouldn’t have that moment to hold onto. I wouldn’t have gotten to say goodbye.


Later that week, there was a memorial assembly. Tyler’s family came, his brother still pale and haunted. The principal spoke, then a few teachers, then Jake, who could barely get through his words. I didn’t speak, but I sat in the auditorium, my hands clasped tightly, and whispered it again in my mind: Goodbye, Tyler.


I don’t know where that urge came from. A gut instinct? A fluke? Something bigger? I’ll never have an answer, and I’ve learned to be okay with that. But I carry it with me, a reminder to listen when something deep inside says, Act. Now. Because sometimes, against all logic, it’s the only chance you’ll get.