Disclaimer: She is me. Her sister is mine. This is my family. Maybe it's your story.

Her sister walked in. She was sleeping. They shared the same room. It was late. No doubt, after such activity, both were tired and they needed to rest. She wasn't snoring, but no one asked. It wasn't that common in her after all. Maybe her sister would have wondered when slowing down to hear her (she didn't).

They had had a good week by then. With leisure to come and go as they pleased, all had gone fine. On that day, they had even gone (as a family) to the beach. No skinny-dipping, no volleyball. Yet it had been very fun. They ate hotdogs they took with them, and chocolate chip muffins she had prepared. They ran, swam, laughed, sang (out of tune). No one said anything wrong. No one messed up.

She kept a poem's diary. The last ones she had written were dark and sad, but they were from long ago. She had passed that phase already. Consciously, she had decided to change. And she had.

A good night's sleep, perhaps, was all she needed. Refreshing, invigorating. Some real rest and a warm shower. She took the warm shower twice-a-day, everyday. The rest… She was working on it.

Her sister was changing into her pajamas, while talking on the phone. Making sure not to turn on the lights (whatsoever the reason), her sister lay down slowly and took the control remote. She had turned on the TV. She would always turned it on when she wanted to sleep.

The conversation went on, sort of dully. Boyfriend-Girlfriend conversations haven't been known as entertaining. A couple of minutes after one, the phone was closed. Her sister had also fallen asleep.

She had always been known for her smile (or lack of it). She'd smile to everyone who passed on her good days. On her bad days, she'd say she was thinking just not to smile. She criticized things easily and was pretty negative. Most people wouldn't believe that. That'd be because (in her own words) "the ones who noticed were the ones who cared, the ones who didn't last long because they were hurt. Too often."

For her, though, life was sometimes easier than she pretended. She just liked the drama and, once she ran out of it, she started making it happen. A disease. A crisis. Illogical things, useful things. They brought everybody's attention back to here, just like it should be. When they did, things were back to normal.

This one was one of those moments. Her feet were cold. She always complained about it. Every minute that passed, she used to say, they got colder and that made her legs hurt in the morning. When she said that, she'd sound 80 years old. She was 17.

There was a reason for all of this, of course. Not all her life had been a fairytale and, used to years of living like that, she preferred suffering slightly. It kept her happy and stable. Somehow…

She lay peacefully. The hours had passed slowly. That was the best thing of that Monday (a holiday). The next day she knew she had to go back to school (12th grade). It was already the next day.

The night had started clearing. In the Caribbean, the day was coming. It was already winter, so it would take more time than usual for the sun to come up. However, the moon went down while the stars twinkled. A poem of hers said "Haven't I always tried to be your star?" Maybe, now, she could be.

The alarm clock prepared (to ring). Some minutes after sic and she'd hit the snooze button. Her mom had already gone downstairs to make breakfast. Her father was in the shower. Her sister was sound asleep, but would never escape those bags (under the eyes). Her brother was also sleeping. Soon enough, the clock started ringing.

No one hit the snooze button.

No one woke up (half-way) and walked into the bathroom to start the daily routine. No one showered. No one turned on the TV for her sister to wake up. No one brushed their teeth. No one practiced a happy smile in the mirror. No one wore a sad one. No one groaned while putting on their uniform for a new day at school.

No one hit the snooze button.

Was she ill? Her sister groggily tossed the clock from the desk to the floor. It broke, but no one noticed. Her sister fell asleep again.

The sun wasn't coming up. It would still have to wait another half hour. The birds weren't singing and there were no toads nearby for them to croak. Their Chihuahua was asleep. The kitty, almost unconscious. The stars, twinkling. A soft breeze moved the leaves in the backyard.

Maybe she couldn't get up. Maybe she was just too tired. Maybe her legs hurt (after all, her feet were cold). Everyone's missed a day (or two) at school, pretending to be sick. Why couldn't she? She was good at pretending.

Her sister sat up in bed. "That's a first!", she would have said sarcastically, but she didn't notice her sister had woken up first. So she lied in her be as her sister showered.

Fully awake, her sister walked back into the room, thanking the convenience of having their own bathroom. She was still in her bed and her coughs, from her flu, were unheard. Her sister sat on her bed and patted her on the back, trying to wake her up. Nothing. Her sister tried taking off the covers and turning on the fan (not necessarily in that order). Nothing. Her sister moved, angrily, to the top of the bed to slap her face, but hit something on the way.

An empty bottle of sleeping pills.

Her sister screamed. Being a good singer, that got everyone in their room at once. No one asked about the mess or the clothes (half the closet) thrown on the bathroom floor. Her brother called an ambulance. Her mother began to cry. Her father tried moving her, and her sister sat still. She did nothing. She just lied on her bed, peacefully.

An empty glass stood on the desk. Somehow, the clock didn't hit it on its way down. It looked at them, rejoicing to have known the truth before they did. No one understood nor noticed.

She was sincerely happy. The trip to the beach had been a success. As the cops continued asking, it became obvious she wasn't depressed. Nor suicidal. Her notes were from the past long gone. Her attitude had (somewhat) changed. Couldn't she just stay put and be happy?

Apparently not. Her life did revolve around drama. Maybe her death did too. The coroner's office decided it had been a deliberate action and ruled it as a suicide.

On the hand she always kept under her pillow while sleeping (in a free-falling position, face down), they found something. It was a small strip of paper, glued by tape, to her skin. The tape went around her wrist a couple of times. It made the small note look like a bracelet, maybe even a watch.

On the piece of paper, her clear hand writing had decorated what she had written in black ink. One word.