She was born in 1940. Born at midnight on the first day of the year, I always knew she was my lucky star. She was put in the bed right next to mine in the hospital, and from then on, we never left each other's side.
That is, until she realized boys and girls couldn't be friends. In third grade, Nicolette decided I wasn't good enough for her. But I didn't mind. I was too shy to talk to her anyway.
I went through elementary school and middle school watching from afar. I was never the bravest soul in the world, and she had made it clear she didn't want me. I was always the skeleton in her closet.
In high school, I saw her ups and downs. I saw her bullied, I saw her broken. I was the one who found her, when she was at her lowest point. Wrists bleeding, eyes crying, hands shaking, nose running. She was so beautiful. And I told her so.
We formed our own social group, Nicolette and I, and we were the dynamic duo again. We only needed each other. High school sweethearts, separated at birth, we were meant to be together forever. But she knew college was a different matter.
"I don't need college." I said. "I'll stay here with you forever." "
"But Andy!" she cried. "You deserve something better than this."
Reluctantly I went, but later I came back. I found her, a mother of two, married and living the best life possible. But I could never leave to find my own path. Instead I waited, hoping for the right moment. Always her best friend and neighbor. I heard the shouting, the screaming, the crying. I was the first to know when the divorce papers were being filed. I saw the bruises, the cracks, the stains on her life. But she was still my beautiful Nicolette. And I told her so.
Married a year later, a daughter a year after that. We grew old in our yellow house on the same street we grew up on. We were content and so happy. She died on that street.
She was older than me by five minutes, and those minutes caught up to her. She fell to the ground, staring without seeing, my beautiful Nicolette. This was good-bye for now. And I told her she looked as beautiful as she died fifty years ago.
It's been five years. How I miss my beautiful Nicolette. How I wish I could tell her so.