I Swear You Will Be Fine

Dear Josh,

Lots to tell you. I went on a ghost tour of Edinburgh (I was being a supportive friend). As part of it, we went to the cemetery that inspired many Harry Potter character names. We stopped in front of a dark building with large wooden doors, and the tour guide told us about the “black mausoleum.”

It’s the burial site of George Mackay Brown, not exactly a great man—he was responsible for hundreds of thousands being massacred. His grave has been disturbed twice, most recently in 2004, the year you were born. Two lads broke into the mausoleum, took out his skull, and played football with it. Since then, his soul has supposedly been restless. Dead animals are often found outside (including hedgehogs, sadly), and anyone who knocks on the doors is said to be haunted by the poltergeist.

So naturally, when the tour guide offered someone the chance to knock, I volunteered. My flatmate laughed, thinking I was joking. She was not happy when she realised I wasn’t. I knocked, and was told I had to ask him to come out. So I said, “Come out, please.” The tour guide said it was the feeblest attempt he’d ever witnessed. I thought I was just being polite.

It didn’t feel like me. Usually, I’m on the side of “don’t tempt fate.” But part of me has already given up—fate has already been tempted, the worst has already happened. And maybe more importantly, I don’t think I mind some contact with the other side. It would be nice to know there could be a two-way conversation. Even if you only wanted to irritate me, I think I’d welcome it.

The next day, I saw a patient with BPD who was acutely suicidal. She gave me a deadline, saying she wasn’t sure she’d make it to then. I told my supervising GP about you, and she offered to let me sit out. But as Mum said, I was always going to have to see patients like this eventually. So we counselled her and did what we could.

As soon as my GP left me to type up the notes, I burst out crying—then stopped when the next patient arrived. This continued all day. For the first time in Edinburgh, I couldn’t settle myself enough to sleep. So I resorted to melatonin after four hours of TikTok. I couldn’t bring myself to talk to my flatmate, though she knew something was wrong. I just kept thinking: why was I helping this patient when I couldn’t help you?

I don’t think the two were related. Not really. I was bound to see a suicidal patient eventually. It was just overwhelming, and I still haven’t processed it. But today, Mum sent me a picture of your phone. It had messages from Mum, Patta, Ammamma, Shalini, and me—the five people closest to you. None of us had texted you recently, let alone the last 24 hours. But I’m choosing to take it as you being glad I knocked.

I’m not going to be greedy. The graveyard is next door to where we’re staying, so really, I could knock every day if I wanted to. I know exactly how you’d react—rolling your eyes, laughing, and saying, “Jeez, Jess. Seriously?” But I’m taking this as confirmation, dude. I’ll be watching for signs until our conversations can be face to face again.

Love,
Acca