Dear Sammy,

This isn't a message for you, I don't believe in ghosts. At least not very much.

This isn't a therapist exercise.

Screw them.

This is me, my thoughts.

But you are the only one in them.

And I need to remember, I need to talk to someone.

And dead people can keep secrets.

This is me.

You died on a Sunday evening.

It was warm and balmy.

I was wearing shorts.

Pink ones.

With hearts on them.

Strange, isn't it?

That we remember the small things, even as faces fade from memory. To block out the bad memories, we remember the insignificant and forget the important ones.

Focusing in on the wrong things, like a broken camera.

Snapshots of the things we don't need to know.

Lined up like the black and white polaroids on my wall.

All the little things, the unimportant memories.

The way your hands brushed mine when we walked side-by-side.

The texts you sent, late at night when we should have been sleeping.

The presents you bought.

The darkness that sometimes tumbled like thunder through your stormy eyes.

Grey eyes, reflecting blue skies.

Do these things really matter anymore?

You were an important memory.

You were my one.

The one.

At least that's what I thought, we didn't have time to find out.

Fifteen is too young to lose your forever love, because you don't yet know if you will be forever. Forever is a long time. Forever is longer than a lifetime.

And love can end in a heartbeat.

Maybe we wouldn't have lasted long.

Maybe we would have broken up, or got married young.

Maybe we'd have had kids, like I used to want.

Maybe we'd have got divorced, had affairs.

Fallen in and out of love.

But you left, left me alone with a bruised heart.

Not broken.

Not yet.

But enough to hurt, enough to make me cry at night.

Enough to hate you sometimes.

And then love you more the next day.

And no one understands.

They say I should move on, it's been too long.

What do they know?

Them, with their cold hearts and unsmiling eyes.

They don't know the secrets you took to your grave, the promises we made.

The best days we shared, the days where everything seemed dappled in shades of pink and yellow.

The grey days. The dark days.

And they say you committed suicide.

Couldn't you have said something?

I promised I loved you, you promised the same thing.

But did you really?

Because surely you would never leave the ones you love.

Your mother.

Her face, oh Sammy, as long as I live I'll never forget her face. It was like she crumpled on the inside, cheeks of paper, hollow eyes. Like, she had nothing left to live for.

Is that how you felt when you jumped?

But you had me.

And her.

And everyone.

Everyone was there for you.

You were just living inside your head.

And didn't let anyone in.

And the noise she made Sammy, when they lowered you into the earth, her cheeks sucked in, she was screaming with no sound. All that came out was a gasp. A little exhalation of air. A small sound, that held so much grief.

I was stone.

I didn't understand what she did.

That you were gone forever.

Longer than a lifetime.

Longer than a million lifetimes.

Forever is a long time.

The longest time.

That I would only every see you in my dreams.

Or nightmares.

Every night.

Forever.

But I don't think it's love anymore.