“He’s dead.”

No.  There’s just no way.  You can’t fathom it.  It’s something that is so drastically shocking, untenable, you can’t breathe, and you try to erase the thoughts with denial.  But the denial flows into reality and you can’t even cry at first.

This hole inside swallows up your thoughts and your feelings.  Your mind is dark, dull.  You can’t talk, you can’t think, you just feel like nothing has happened and everything has happened.

Then you find a picture under your bed.  In your phone.  All the memories flood your mind and suddenly you feel your soul tearing and you crumple to the floor, clutching the picture, remembering, wanting to forget, wanting the world to stop turning, wanting God to take you away with him.

You’re drowning and burning and you want to rid yourself of the pain. But every part of your body burns and there would never be enough sobs to expel the fire and the hurt.  You cry and cry and you burn the picture because you want to forget, and pretend like everything okay.

But you regret burning your memories, and the tears run over your blotchy, broken face.  You collect the ashes, saying sorry sorry sorry and put them in a jar so you can remember the summer days and the smiles and that one-time-we-almost-kissed and you keep it somewhere only you know.

People tell you sorry.  They say the understand.

Who the hell are you to say you understand?  You don’t understand.

Nobody does.

The days slip into weeks into months.  Your heart aches everyday.  But you smile and you laugh and nobody knows and it’s okay.  Sometimes people find out later on, and they say “I didn’t know about him!  I’m so sorry.”

But you’re not sorry, you’re just pitying.

But you don’t blame them, you brush it off, say it’s fine, he’s in a better place.

Except his better place was right next to you.

Time drifts on, and the pain dulls.  Except every once in a while, you hear that song, you smell that cologne, you see his brother at church, and it hits you like your father who used to hit you but you don’t see anymore.

And sometimes you go somewhere and see couples.  Holding hands, holding hearts, kissing lips, kissing stars.  Or you just see friends laughing and not caring and you think what if, what if, what if.

There is no pain worse than the pains of what ifs and coulda beens.

What if you had just let him hold you.  What if you hadn’t ignored him on that day when he was crying. 

Why did you ignore him that day you stupid stupid that was the day he killed himself and you could’ve said something did something well now he’s gone little girl and it’s all your fault

And you tell this to your mom or his mom and you apologize and they say it’s not your fault.  But you know deep deep inside that it is and he knows it is and it’s too late.

The what ifs kill.

What if you had said one more I love you.

But it’s too late.  It’s all too late.

And it breaks you.

You smile, you laugh, you get good grades, you have friends, you have a boyfriend, you have it all.  But nobody knows all the pain that you stuff inside and foster.  You try to hide it.  His mom gives you looks sometimes at coffee hour, her eyes burning questions: ‘he loved you, why didn’t you give him anything back?’  His brother hugs you sometimes, kissing your hair, saying ‘we miss him too.’  Oh don’t touch me you beautiful boy you’re just like him, do you cry too at night?  Your eyes, your eyes are just like his.  Sobs choke you.  Don’t touch me, you’re just like him.

But you let him hold you cause he needs it more than you.

All the hurt, all the pretending. 

Doesn’t it wear you down?

Everyone else knows about him too.  Some bring him up to you sometimes, most don’t.  But they think, oh she’s fine.  She’s so strong.  She dealt with it a long time ago.  She’s moved on.

Oh, no no no.  None of them understand.  They don’t know about your sleepless, sobbing nights.  The nights where you cry so much your skin is hot and red and puffy and hurting.  Where you can’t see out of your eyes cause it’s too blurry and bleary. 

They don’t know about every morning where you say ‘good morning’ to the sky but you’re actually talking to him.  They don’t know about the times your body, your heart physically aches and you want to go somewhere damp and quiet and scream and rack long painful sobs because you can’t handle the debilitating pain.

You hate those words, she’s so strong, because every day you break inside, you’re so weak.  It’s not strength, it’s pretending.  ‘Fake it til you make it’, they joke.  No, you’ll fake it til you die.

You can’t confide about this, because if you do you know you couldn’t finish, you couldn’t describe it all.  And they would nod and smile and pat your back and say ‘you’re handling it so well.  you’re so strong’ no no I’m not stop saying that I’m not I just need someone to hold me and say nothing and just UNDERSTAND without pitying without condescending just understand.

So, you go day by day, trying to get by, get things done, trying to be there for so many.  You want to give love, because you don’t get it from the people you need it from most.  But it’s wearying, trying to make everyone happy when your soul is dull and cut.  They ask how you are, and you say “I’m good!” when you’re dying inside and you ache for his gentle, sweet, strong arms around you whispering “no you’re not, tell me why”. 

Why didn’t you love him back, why, why.  Why did you play hard to get, why did you chase after those who never actually loved you? 

No one can fill the hole he left behind.  You have to come to terms with that.  Says the therapist, who probably never had a death worse than her parrot.  You try her methods, her mediation exercises or whatever, but nothing works, nothing works, and you never go back to another ‘grief counselor’ again.

The song blares, I need you, I need you, I need you right now, and your friends laugh like idiots and scream along and jerk their heads to the beat drops and you climb to the trunk saying you need to vape even though you don’t vape and you cry into his sweatshirt that you still have years later. 

Can anyone hear your heart breaking?

Come back, I promise I’ll love you right, you say to yourself as you roll into a ball in your bed, knowing that you didn’t love him like that, and you probably never would.  He was just a friend, but so much more than a friend.  No words can claim his special place in your heart and your soul and your psyche.  He was your soulmate, but not like that.  The least you could’ve done was be there when he needed you most.

But you walked away and that was your choice and you have to live with that.

But you’re barely living.

But it’s okay, it’s all okay, everything’s okay and that’s life.

He was your everything and remember that time he threw you in the water and you pretended to be mad, but you weren’t, you were happy because he gave you his towel and hugged you until you were warm, and you laughed. And he did too.

And remember that dance where he hogged you for every dance and he was so, so handsome and his smile melted you and you knew right then that you would love him for the rest of your life.

And when he told you he loved you and you said, I know, I love you too, but just as a friend.  And he was so broken, and he shed a tear, but he loved you hard enough to never ask you again.

Why did you break him, you stupid, stupid girl?

Now he’s gone.

It’s too late.  It’s all too late.

What if, what if, what if.

What if you hadn’t broke him.