Her

I forgive her for dying. 

But what would that mean?

It would mean forgiving her for letting me drown in my sorrow, for making me feel guilty that I’m even mad at her in the first place for something that will eventually happen to everyone. 

But it was her. 

Her.

She wasn’t just anyone. She was my spark in the dark, the kind of person you think of when something exciting happens, and you want to tell them- someone- who you’d spend your whole life sunk into their arms in an embrace that not only feels like they’re keeping you from falling apart but also makes you wish you could experience that hug for the first time again. 

She died on December 22, 2025.

It was a sudden death, unexpected and unexplainable.

She was young, so no one could really say she passed away of old age.

Spontaneous. Yes.

Predictable. Not at all.

The day she died was on my birthday, and I’ll never forget all she said to me before it all happened, what she promised, what she didn’t, and what she made us all believe.

Because she was like that.

She kept everything bottled up inside her and didn't utter a single word to any of us.

She would play with my feelings and make me believe things that weren’t true at all.

She would break my heart, then help me pick up all the pieces afterward.

She was day and night at the same time.

One minute she could be smiling and laughing; the other she’d be on her phone and not engaging at all.

I recall everything about her: her smell, her favorite grey cardigan, which I still keep, the different kinds of laughter reserved for each one of us, and especially her smiles, the double-sided ones that could either mean she was actually happy, or simply annoyed at you and wanted to get it over with.  

What a girl she was.

And one that I will never forget.

*

“Books are like doors to another world. That’s why I love them so much. I can be anywhere, be anyone, and forget, for maybe even just a minute, who I am,” she says whimsically.

I look at her through the corner of my eye and watch as she smiles at me over her book, flipping the page.

   “That’s how you feel when you read?” I ask her, and she smiles softly, the kind she uses only for me, the one where only the faint trace of a dimple is visible on her cheeks but still crinkles the edges of her eyes.

I love the way she smiles differently for everyone. With her mom, her face visibly relaxes, and her eyes soften with a genuine look that says she’s happy to see her. With her friends, like the guy she spent her whole childhood with, it's effortless, carefree, and full of crinkles. 

It’s not me, though. I’ve been her friend ever since we were twelve, and now we’re seventeen. Her smile isn’t guarded, but not entirely like the way she smiles for him. 

She nods once and shifts her legs on the plush chair, bringing them up against her chest. She carefully closes her book and sets it aside on the coffee table.

The public library is where she loves to go most of the time, especially when it’s raining, and of course she wears her favorite grey cardigan, draped over her slim shoulders like she’s being covered by a stormy cloud.

The smell of books and pages wafts through the air, and I honestly like it, even though reading isn’t one of the things I’d do in my spare time.

She hums as she thinks of something to say, letting the faint sound of people turning pages fill in the silence.

   “Hey, can I ask you something?” she says after a pause.  

I glance at her over the screen of my phone, and nod.

She waits for a few minutes before speaking.

   “You all seem kind of worried lately. Is it because of me?” she asks, resting her chin over her knees.

I look at the way her eyes wander down to her feet, and I take advantage of that and study her face. When we were younger, she would always bite the inside of her cheek when she was concentrating on something, and now she’s still doing the same thing. I wonder what’s inside her head. Sometimes I imagine it’s like a theme park, full of fun rides and whirly rollercoasters of various heights. Then the scary ones too, the ones that no one wants to go on because it’s too tall and there are far too many loops.

   “You know I’m fine, right?” she asks, turning her head to me.

I meet her eyes, and I shift uncomfortably on my seat, trying to ignore the way she stares at me like I’m the only person in the world right now.

   “I know you are. But we just want to make sure you really are okay. You’ve been acting…strange lately,” I murmur. 

I notice her look away through the window at a couple walking their dog, their arms linked and the woman’s head resting against his shoulder.

Her grip on the book tightens imperceptibly as she swallows hard.

   “Promise you’ll be there for us?” I ask hopefully.

And she looks at me softly, a warm glint in her eyes, and smiles.

   “Promise.”

*

Promises were lies to her. 

She would hide beneath those even though she couldn’t exactly guarantee the outcome of them. 

Maybe she knew that. Maybe that’s why it seemed so effortless to her, with those soft eyes and reassuring smile that made you believe every word she spoke. 

That was the part that hurt most. 

The fact that she made me believe her. 

Because I did. 

I really did. 

I believed her.

And then she used my innocence, my blind devotion to her, so she could warp her promises and make them feel like truths, when really they were something she knew I wanted to hear. 

That’s what made it so cruel.

She didn’t have to lie convincingly. 

She only had to be her, and I would have believed anything she told me