Andrew was hit by a car and died two days ago - I lived with him for 28 days last year and he believed I was trying to kill him the whole time

Drew died two days ago. Hit by a car. He was 31.

His mother flew in from Kansas to hold his hand before he went. I didn't know that until after. I'm glad she made it.

I knew Drew differently than most people. I knew him because I invited him to live in my house for 28 days in February of last year.

It was a nightmare.

Drew was psychotic. Not "difficult." Not "eccentric." Psychotic. He was using substances I couldn't name. He thought I was trying to poison him. He would stare at me from across the room with pure terror in his eyes—not anger, terror—because he believed I was going to kill him.

One day, he called the police on me. He said I had attacked him with a syringe in the neck. There was no syringe. No mark on his neck. I hadn't been within eight feet of him that entire day. The police came. They looked around. They left.

I made a joke about it later, because that's what I do when things are too hard to feel. I said the accused action was just an "Italian Family Greeting." A salute. Because a billionaire made a certain gesture on live television and called it a "Roman Salute." It wasn't funny. But I laughed anyway.

Drew lasted 28 days. Then we got our faith communities involved to mediate an amicable move-out. He left. I kept living.

I still cared about him. That's the part that doesn't make sense to people who haven't lived it. You can be afraid of someone and still want them to be okay. You can set a boundary and still grieve when they die.

I don't know what Drew's life was like before me. I don't know what it was like after. I know he was 31. I know he was hit by a car. I know his mother held his hand.

And I know that for 28 days, he was my responsibility, my terror, my guest, my teacher.

He taught me that safety is not guaranteed. He taught me that people can be dangerous without being evil. He taught me that I can hold a boundary and still hold love.

I'm not going to pretend he was a saint. He wasn't. He was a mess. A beautiful, terrifying, psychotic mess.

And I'm going to miss him.

Not the chaos. Not the fear. Just... him. The person underneath all of that, who I caught glimpses of between episodes. The person who laughed at something absurd. Who ate my cooking without suspicion, just once. Who was 31 years old and had already been through so much.

Rest easy, Drew. No more poison. No more syringes. No more cars.

Just peace. I hope.