When she left I cried so hard I thought it’ll gouge my eyes out but she lay there still.
I was with her. I never slept I stayed with her hoping she’ll hear. I cried for days. I watched the flowers wilt. I watched the candles burn. I watched people weep, say their prayers, share their memories of her, offer their condolences, and leave. But I stayed, I stayed up, I begged. But she never heard. You can’t make a dead person hear you out or come back, or talk to you or anything. You can’t make a dead person do anything. No matter what you do.
I waited every day. I waited for her to come home. I waited for her to say her goodbye. I am so so sorry that I didn’t make it in time to say goodbye. I was so so sorry I wasn’t able to tell her how much I loved her. I blamed everyone else for not being her. I blamed myself for being alive. I hated myself.
And if you ask me how much that hurt, I wouldn’t even be able to raise my hands. That was the highest ten. I was sixteen and sometimes you think that if you’ve been through that kind of pain at such an early age, any other is a futile effort to hurt you. What could hurt you more? No, that isn’t the case. You’re never invincible.
I understand that the person who loved me died when you left. I understand that love is already dead. Maybe I was responsible for that too. No I truly am. Maybe this was my sentence. This is the sinful asking me to hold up my end of the bargain. This was the price of the deal I made to be happy. I was happy. And maybe this was to be my punishment for being happy the wrong way. Because this time, there’s no one to share my grief. The church is empty except for me. The world goes on. There’s no one I could tell our story to. There’s not a single friend who could remotely understand the joy and the pain this has brought me. There’s no one to remember us. And this is why you are a ten. This is a great and terrible ten.