I’ve often wondered whether it was worth it.

It’s been a year now. Three hundred and sixty five days and thirteen and a half-hours, if you want to be pedantic. A year since you made me realise I was seeing through the clichéd "rose tinted glasses". A year since I was told.

I don't know whether you can hear me, or whether you would listen if you could, but I still talk to you. I talk to you every day.

I’m sitting in the grass, staring at the grey stone in front of me, words artistically carved into it. It is smooth, strong and unbreakable - kind of how you used to be. Amazing how deceiving appearances can be. You had us all fooled you know.

This is the first time I’ve had the courage to come here. At first I was afraid. Afraid that I would feel you glaring at me, your eyes silently accusing me. I thought your presence would still linger here, after all, we spent hours here – morbid I know. But it felt right. The people here didn’t have any expectations. Of course, of you at least, everyone else did.

Entering your world was like entering a parallel universe. Yet you took everything with a smile. Did you ever feel like yelling? like throwing things and screaming? I never, in four years, saw you lose your control. I never saw you cry.

Do you know how much you have changed everyone?

He’s in jail now. Fifteen years to go before he’s released.

Your father hasn’t forgiven himself, he thinks he is to blame. I know it was too late, but he did learn to love you. I’m sorry to say that, quite frankly, your mother doesn't care. But I think you know that already. She was hurt at first, and she misses you, but she doesn't get the point that you tried to make.

And as for us? They say life goes on. It doesn't, not anymore. You were everything that we strived to be; I suppose it’s lucky we never got there. It’s funny really. You wrote that you loved us, that it wasn't our fault, that we were the ones that you could be yourself around, you didn’t have to act. Yet we were the ones that ended it. I hope you know that we didn’t mean it, that we were angry. You never let down your barriers and showed us the truth. I suppose that’s not fair. You did tell us, in writing, and you explained everything, though by then it was too late. If we had known…

I remember, three days later, we were all at the Cathedral. You were there. Peaceful and serene, your masks were still in place. But you appeared to be more alive than you had been in years. It’s strange that the only place you relaxed was in your coffin.

I don’t remember much, except that you wore long, ivory sleeves. They didn’t hide the marks though. Still angry, still red, still harsh, they stood out despite the makeup. Then I realised that you did cry – but the tears were red.

I left soon after; I couldn’t face seeing you lowered into the ground. I was angry at first, at you, at me, at everybody. But your letters explained it. And I’m beginning to accept.

You broke his heart you know; we nearly lost him too. He was determined to follow you; he believed that he could find you. Only the last promise he made to you kept him from repeating it.

I though you’d be angry with me, that I’d sense a malignant spirit haunting me. But I understand now, that it had nothing to do with us, but with you. We would have tried to save you, if you had given us a chance. I don’t think we could have prevailed against the darkness, though.

I’ve often wondered whether it was that bad, whether it was worth it. Because, despite everything, I still love life. I still want to wake up every morning; I want to wake up tomorrow.

I understand now, that, to you, it was worth it.