We were driving home when we saw the headlights coming too fast, swerving across the double lines. The crash sounded like an explosion, and then everything went quiet. We pulled over, hearts racing, and dialed 911, but it felt like the longest wait of our lives. The two cars were mangled, but you could see the prom decorations still hanging from the rearview mirrors. A girl was slumped over in the passenger seat, blood running down her dress, and the driver of the other car was motionless, pinned by the steering wheel. We couldn’t do anything. We just stood there, watching, feeling like we should do something, anything.
The paramedics showed up first, but it was clear they weren’t rushing to help everyone. One of them said the girl in the passenger seat was gone. The driver was conscious, but barely—he was shaking and calling out to his friend in the other car. We didn’t know what to do -just kept thinking about their faces, about the night they probably thought they’d be laughing and driving home from prom, not this. We were just bystanders, people who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, but we’ll never forget the look on that kid’s face when he realized what had just happened.
Prom should end with memories, not sirens.