I miss her.

Especially on summer nights like this, so close to mid-August, so close to the night she died.

On nights like this, I sometimes feel an overwhelming urge to get away. Away from everyone else. But more specifically, from Tara.

I know. I know that she's different from Talia. Even with those haunting green eyes, they don't look remotely alike.

And no one knows better than I do, how different they both are.

Tara is, still is, my best friend, my closest confidant – the one girl who understands and accepts every part of me, even now. Even when I don't deserve it.

And Talia... Talia is my...

My dead ex-girlfriend.

They are nothing alike. But in every line of Tara's face, I sometimes still see... the lingering ghost of Talia's smile.

Big green eyes, looking up at me – then you drive us home.

When that happens, I have to close my eyes and look away. Tara knows. It's in the curve of her lowered eyelashes, the droop of her down-turned lips when I look back at her.

She knows.

I look down now, at the watch on my wrist that tells me it's midnight. It's the one Talia bought for my birthday before she died, the one Tara threw at me before we slept together for the first time. Tara hates this watch. She thinks I don't know, but I do. She thinks I don't see the way her brows draw together and her eyes dim whenever her gaze falls on the watch. She thinks I don't see the way her heart breaks every time she reaches for me and her hand brushes against its strap for a brief moment. She thinks I don't see the way her fingers tremble, just a little, before she snatches her hand back.

But I do.

I know she thinks that this watch is the symbol of my relationship with Talia, that wearing it every day is the only way I can stay close to her.

A part of me thinks that, too.

When I was still mourning Talia, the grieving part of me needed to think that.

But the other part of me, the part who was Tara's best friend before he was Talia's boyfriend, knows the truth. This watch has always been Tara's, even before I believed she loved me. This watch is a reminder, from her to me, every time I thought I couldn't go on, to go on. It saved my life every day. She saves my life every day.

Tara thinks I don't know, but I know it must have been her who thought of this present. It would never have occurred to Talia. Talia had never encouraged my hobby of diving. She hadn't even wanted me to work as a lifeguard. She worried about me swimming in the open sea. She thought it was too dangerous.

The irony.

I look up and sigh. It's a clear night – beautiful, really – with stars scattered all over the sky. There are people who believe that the dead turn into stars to watch over us. I'm not one of the believers. And at this moment, I'm not very sure I want Talia to be up there, watching over us.

I don't want her to know what we've become.

My fist clenches in the sand, the rough grains cutting into my palm. Then I breathe out and slowly push to my feet. In the background, I hear the gentle crash of the waves beating onto the sand. The waves are gentle tonight. But Talia was right. The sea is always dangerous, even on a night like this.

Especially on a night like this.

How easy it would be, to simply walk into the waves and let go. Let myself sink. Let myself be with Talia again.

I almost did that, once, earlier this summer. I let the water close over my head and I went down, down, down. It would've been so easy to close my eyes and breathe in. 72% of the human body is made up of water. One little breath and I would've been home.

But survival instinct kicked in, and I had kicked my legs, hard, propelling myself upward - broke through the water – and breathed.

And then I had seen Tara, a few feet away, vanishing into the water the same way I had - and my chest had tightened so much it felt like I was drowning again. Not Tara, I remember thinking. Not Tara too. I can't lose Tara too.

If Tara had drowned that night, maybe I wouldn't be here now. It would've been so easy. So easy to sink into the waves and let everything go. Dying is easy. It's the living, being reminded of the dull ache in your chest every second of every day, when you walk past the place that used to be your special spot, the way you absently take out your phone to text a person who will never, ever reply again – that is excruciating.

They're wrong – the people who say that time heals all wounds. It doesn't. Some wounds cut so deep that you never fully recover from them. Some wounds leave permanent scars. Some wounds cripple us so badly that the only thing we can ever hope for is to hold on and keep breathing, to the best of our ability, one day at a time.

I get to my feet and dust the sand off the back of my jeans. Then I take one last look at the lulling waves. They're lapping softly at my feet, beckoning, like a seductive lover. But I turn away.

Tara is waiting for me.

---

END.