letter for a dead girl

“it doesn’t count if you are already planning your defeat” you said, kindly stroking my fluffy hair.

“what do you mean it doesn’t? it’s much better than planning to win. You are already ready for the hit losing will give you” I answered. I was laid down on her lap looking up at you. From there I could see you face hunched over me; you weren’t beautifully pretty. you didn’t have long blond hair, or any, for that matter.

your eyes also weren’t sparkling full of life and they weren’t blue, like all those models you see on social media. When you smiled, it wasn’t stark white. Yet, you were special in your own gentle way. The wrinkle on your forehead I loved to caress, those small freckles just above your right cheek. It was all something that everybody could love, if only they chose to.

your soul, however, wasn’t one you could choose to love, you just did and you would never worry you’ve made a wrong choice. It was such a bright soul it could pierce the darkest night and even go through the foggiest skies. It was just as having the idea of a star near.

“what if you win? You won’t know what to do then. Perhaps you will feel nothing but embarrassment and also you won’t get to actually feel victory”

I brought my hand up, wanting to touch your freckles. Just before I touched you, I stopped my hand for a moment, afraid that I may have broken you if I wasn’t delicate enough. your skin was soft and smooth, almost unnaturally, and it was white, maybe because you didn’t spend much time in the sunlight anymore. Despite my best effort you couldn’t, there were more important things for you.  

“when you’re hurting, it’s much worse than when you’re winning, so it’s better to be prepared for it, don’t you think?” I commented, distracted by your cheeks.

you started couching and I immediately got up from her lap, but you managed to calm it down. I couldn’t lie down, I didn’t want to hurt you. I didn’t even had enough courage to look in your eyes. As we both sat there, in the couch, one looking in one direction and the other in another, I felt my hands shaking more and more. Still not looking, trying to calm down, I felt something touching my hand: it was yours. Slowly, you played with my fingers and then intertwined yours with mine.

I wasn’t looking at first, but then I just quickly took a glance and then I couldn’t help myself but to look. I saw her your bowed, looking at our fingers. Then, as you took my hand into yours, you kissed me. In that moment my hands stopped trembling.

“I think both are proofs we are living and, if they are there, it’s to remind us of who we are” you said, as you pulled away from the kiss. It was just as sweet as any of our kisses.  

My phone ringed in my pocket, looking it up it said: mom, in big letters. She called me, wondering where I was. Looking at the clock on the screen it was quite late, so I said I was getting back.

“I need to go” I said, avoiding your look, hoping that, maybe, I wouldn’t feel as bad leaving you. It didn’t work.  

“I know” you told me. We always got sad when I was supposed to go back home, but we both found peace in the fact that, maybe, we would have another chance of seeing each other.

I left your apartment and got out, going towards my car. It was a rather small one, but I bought it with the money I made from my own work so I was (and still am) very proud of it.  I got in and turned it on, as I did with some music, mostly to not listen to the thoughts inside my head while getting back home.  

There was one thought always present, constantly knocking in my brain, as if it always wanted to remind me it was there: suicide.  When that girls dies, I die with her, just as that. I want to spend my entire life with her, hanging from a tree with her, jumping in a pool with her (maybe splashing her), having one or two children with her or, if she didn’t want to give birth to one, adopt someone, teaching them math (and also learning it myself). Every time I think about my future, I cannot think of one without her.

These thoughts kept me company, as the music did, all the way home. A nice, cosy home with my own bed and food prepared by a mother who truly loved me, with a hard-working father, worrying only about my future and nothing else. 

Sometimes, I think I got lucky and life was too easy for me, so it balanced itself out. It gave me too much at first, so now it’s taking things from me.

That day was the last time I saw you at your apartment.  

A week ago, I saw you again. asleep in your bed right in front of me, probably much weaker than before, but you would have never said it out loud. You woke up when I brushed your cheek as you always did when we slept together. You always were a light sleeper.  

“hey” you told me, in your sleep voice.

“hey” I told you, looking into your squinting eyes. There was even less light than before. “has it been working?”

“don’t know, half the time I’m asleep. The other I try not to spend in this bed, going around”

“what do you mean going around? You can’t leave, you know that. how could you leave?”

“have you seen how busy everyone is here? Nobody even notices, most of the time I’m just outside breathing in some fresh air” she said, trying to get up.

“o, nonono. You stay put, you calm down and you wait for the nurse.” I said, pushing you back down and covering you with the sheets.

“ok, mom” she laughed. I tried to laugh too, but tears fell down my cheeks. I couldn’t see almost anything, but that’s when something touched my hand. A soft touch and then something holding it.

“I’ll be okay, there is no need to cry”

“will you really be?” I said, still choking on my tears. She never answered.

We ignored it and stayed together for as much time as we could have. We played with cards and I showed you some tricks I knew, they were always the same ever since we met, but you always loved them and never quite understood how I did it, despite me trying to explain. We played some games we both had on our phones, laughing and insulting each other. In the end, I had to leave.

That was a week ago.

“how could you? We’ve made a promise to each other, didn’t we? How can you expect me to be the only one to respect it?”

“I know, I’m sorry” you said, whispering “I really wanted to hold that promise, but there is still hope. I’m not dead yet. I can still respect it. If I die, remember that i died with that promise deep into my heart”

“I love you” I said, tears filling my eyes. There were so many I couldn’t see anymore.

“I love you” you answered, with one whisper

I had to be brought outside from your room, only to see you one last time down the corridor of the hospital, weakly waving your hand.

Both me and the parents were waiting in a room. I was probably a total mess, but I didn’t care. your mother was just like me, crying and suffering. your dad was the only one who seemed calm, but I knew he wasn’t. you could see it from little things: he kept playing with his pen with trembling hands. He knew he needed to be strong, so as to not destroy everything else he still had, but it was hard. It would have been easier to recognize he didn’t know what to do and to cry out loud, but he couldn’t. it was just how he was, nothing more.

We waited, patiently. Hour after hour, hearing door opening and wondering if those running doctors came bringing happy or bad news, or even if they had any news at all.

We knew the surgery would last very long, but we didn’t care. We wanted to share your burden and that was our way of doing it. We believed that, if we went back home, we would be betraying you. And so we waited and waited, until finally someone came to us.

I still remember her. Her face was dark, not only because of her skin, but it didn’t have life in it. her eyes reminded me of those eyes without any kind of sparkle into them, they even shared the same colour: green with hints of brown. Her lips opened and she gave us the news: they couldn’t do anything. It was too severe to have anything done. Maybe you wouldn’t even wake up, but that would only be told by time.

Her mother broke into cries and her father fell back into the chair, with his hand covering his face. I moved, I didn’t even answer when the doctor called me, I just kept walking.

I couldn’t do nothing but walk and walk, not even crying. I didn’t feel anything. All I remember is that I was walking on stairs and then I was there, on the roof of the hospital.

Looking down, I felt something. There were few people moving under there, some running whilst other were simply walking, maybe talking with someone close. There were few trees near the exit, but nothing more. It was just concrete all around.

 Nothing to stop me from falling, nothing to hold on if I had a wrong thought. I just needed to go over the railing and then no more worries. It would all just end there and maybe I could see you again.

It was easy enough to go to the other side of the railing, but there, feeling the wind against my face, I wondered if this was really right. My hands wouldn’t stop holding and my feet wouldn’t dare take another step, despite me trying to. It was fear, fear of nothingness, fear of pain, fear of doing the wrong thing.

Would you approve? No, probably no. despite your cancer, you never stopped being a playful and happy person, not wanting to waste your life. If you were given the opportunity, you would have lived with all yourself, but you didn’t know how hard it was. You didn’t have the love of your life stripped away from you. You didn’t have to keep living, knowing no one will ever be as good as someone you have lost. It was so easy for you to do everything without worrying, now that your death was in front of you.

What is that? These thoughts? Am I jealous? How could I be jealous of you? Of being dead? Of having a finite time? Maybe because it is easier when you know when you’ll die.

A breeze blew right on my hair and it reminded me of something.

“it doesn’t count if you are already planning your defeat” you said, kindly stroking my fluffy hair.

You didn’t know when you would die, no. you didn’t know you would have died. You weren’t planning for your defeat, it just came and hit you. You believed until the last moment you would win. In dying, you were defeated and it meant you were alive, just as much if you would have survived.

I also planned this in defeat. It wouldn’t count. you would never accept that I killed myself and even that I decided to well before you got worse.

In dying, you made me understand the meaning of life. How ironic is that?

Live without worrying if you’ll lose or win, either case you will have lived.

I leave this letter at your tomb, where everybody can read it, in hopes that, perhaps, the one who needs it the most reads it.