Days weigh heavy on her shoulders. You can see them, they drag them down, push her back down. She loses her mind; you find it on the ground somewhere. When you try to return it she refuses. She doesn’t want to know what she’s doing wrong.

You saw the scars and are worried. You tell her she needs to stop, everyday you tell her this and you notice the days weighing heavier on her shoulders. You’re a worrier; you have to tell her everyday.

“Aren’t I your friend? Why don’t you believe me?”

You’re losing her a little more everyday. Her eyes which used to be the light of your day have grown dull. When she stares out the window, you can see her jumping. Your mind shudders and your body falls cold. You come to her and tell her what she’s doing is wrong.

Really, you mean well.

She isn’t talking too much anymore. She’s always glancing at that notebook you aren’t allowed to read. She now responds mostly in gestures. Nodding yes or shaking her head no. When you bother her too often she raises her eyes to you and glares. You’re losing that one person.

“Just give me some space, okay?”

You don’t want to lose her. You say okay and leave her alone.

She’s gone now. Not quite dead but most definitely not alive. She’s not passing, she barely shows up for any classes at all. When you meet her she smells of dried blood and marijuana. The heavy drug that gives illusions of happiness. She’s not happy though. She’s still looking at that notebook like it’s hiding some answer she can’t read.

“Are you okay?”

She looks at you. It’s a desperate look that is being strangled by hatred. She doesn’t want you to leave but it’s the only thing she desires. You remind her too much of how she wants to be.

You haven’t gone to her house in months. When you reach there she doesn’t let you in, instead she comes and sits on the porch with you. She has the notebook in her hands and she keeps looking at it. She’s not talking, you’re holding up a one-sided conversation.

When she looks at you she hurts to unexplainable degrees.

“I love you.” She whispers fingering the cover of the notebook, it’s driving you crazy.

You do too, but you can only respond weakly, “I love you too.”

The next day at school she doesn’t show. She doesn’t come the day after that too. You’re beginning to fret and finally after the fourth day you’re approached.

“Miss,” They stop you, it’s the police and their faces are uninviting, “I’m sorry.”

You know what they mean. Somehow you knew. You weren’t crying, you weren’t hurt. All you could think of is I knew it, I knew it, I knew it, I knew it. They find it hard to believe you aren’t crying so they remind you of who died. You look at them, your expression alike with hers at that point.

So desperate, so hateful.

You fell in love with that person. No one could understand, no one knew about it. Where you’re from it’s bad to love that person.

Yeah, it hurts. You could feel the knife ripping through you every time you saw her name or face.

Though, you know better don’t you? She died and left you alive. She needed you to take up where she left off. You always knew she wasn’t strong enough for that.

You’re not afraid of ahead or behind. You’ve lost something important that you’re looking for again. An all important search for what she needed to be strong.

“Hey, you know.” You tell her upon the stony bed. “I would’ve loved to help you.” You sit beside the stone looking forward unto the sun. “I would’ve done anything for you.”