She was only 20—full of dreams, laughter, and the quiet strength that made everyone feel safe in her presence. Her name was Lacey, and she died alone on a cold bathroom floor, a victim not just of fentanyl, but of a system that failed her. Her overdose was not instant; there was time—time when a simple dose of naloxone could have pulled her back, time when a life could have been saved with just a breath of compassion or preparedness. But no one was there with the antidote, no one was trained, no one knew. The silence that followed her last breath wasn’t just grief—it was rage, heartbreak, and the bitter weight of knowing her death was preventable. She should be here. She should be laughing. She should be healing. Instead, she is a story—a warning—when she should have been a future.