If only.

If only.

If only I could.

If only I had the strength.

I can't do anything but sit

and watch

as you

die.

I could have stopped this.

I could have saved you.

But I didn't have

the strength.

If only I did.

If only I pushed through the fear.

You would still be here.

You would

still

be

here.

I'm so sorry.

If only I could tell you that.

I should have helped.

I should have tried.

If only I did.

You would be here;

right by my side.

I'm so sorry.

If only you could know that.

I would give anything to see you again.

To hug you,

one last

time.

If only...

I write, tears streaming down my face, splattering on the paper, making it fragile. I choke back a sob, biting my fist, careful to not make a sound. My mom would hear me, come in my room, and try to talk to me.

Don't get me wrong, I love talking to her, but this topic is sensitive. I don't talk to anyone about it. I can't.

I lost my best friend last month, she was amazing and I had known her since first grade. We spent every second together, making memories, talking about boys, doing our makeup; we were practically sisters.

But now she's gone.

I'm only 16, but I feel much older. Must be the trauma.

See, we were in a tough situation, we were kidnapped walking home from school one day, and we were made a deal; either I give my life for her, or she dies.

Should have been an easy choice, right?

It wasn't; in fact, it was too much for me. I broke down right there on the cold, hard concrete of the warehouse, crying my eyes out, sobs escaping my throat, begging for both of our lives.

My anxiety skyrocketed, causing my vision to become blurry, my thinking to become clouded, and my hands to shake. Anxiety attack.

They always come at the worst times, like when you have to present in front of your class, or be the center of attention. They are embarrassing to me, I can't talk clearly, and I can't move. Of course, my teachers know this stuff, and don't make me present, but before they knew, I was a mess. I would get sent to the office for refusing to go up in front of the class.

It would take me half an hour to build up the courage to go throw away a wrapper, but I wait until someone else does it so I know it's okay. I would sweat all the way to the garbage, and would focus on my feet; making sure I don't trip.

I would shake for at least ten minutes after answering a question in class, or if I was asked a question, I would become silent, not talking at all, frozen from fear.

Yeah, anxiety sucks.

So I was begging for our lives, pleading with them, crying like a newborn baby; and yet, they laughed. They laughed at my tears, they laughed at my best friend, tied up, trying to stay strong, they laughed at us, like this whole thing was a joke.

They told me one more time, "Either you live and she dies, or she lives and you die. You have two minutes to decide."

I lift my head, looking my best friend in the eyes, silently asking her what I should do.

Of course she told me to save myself, but I wanted to save her. There was a problem though. I hate death. I hate the thought of it happening to me, I don't want it to be painful, I want to die in my sleep. I fear pain. But saving my best friend mattered more.

I tried to tell them to kill me and spare her, but my voice wouldn't work. I tried again, pleading with myself to get over the anxiety attack and speak.

Nothing happened.

Then:

"Times up!"

No no no no no no no no no no.

Please no.

I try to scream, I try to shout, I try to stand.

I fail.

I can only watch as my bestfriend gets stabbed in the chest. I can only watch as the blood leaks from the wound, staining her clothes, drippin gto the floor. I can only watch as her eyes meet mine, fear engulfing her, realization that she is about to die crosses her face. She screams.

Then falls silent.

Quiet can be deafening.

I collapse to the ground, shock overtaking me, making me numb.

I hardly feel as the kidnappers load me and my dead best friend into the back of a truck, and dump us on the side of the road.

It was pure luck that an officer found me, draped over her body, sobbing. She took me to the station after calling for an ambulance. I had to tell her the whole story. Top to bottom. Only stopping to cry my eyes out a few times.

My best friend is dead.

My heart is in trillions of pieces; scattered across the globe, aching for her.

Now, I sit here, crying on a piece of paper, ink smearing.

"Stay quiet," I whisper to myself, "Please."

I'm so sorry.

I fold the paper, standing up from my desk, and exit my room; careful to avoid my parents and siblings.

I hop on my bike, click on my helmet, and pedal off, tears still running.

I arrive at my destination.

I sink to my knees, trembling as I set the paper on the stone. Then I sit there for hours, staring at her grave.

I'm so sorry.

Darkness fall, stars come out, I stay. My mom will be looking for me, but I don't care. I don't care.

I have barely survived this past month without her, how am I supposed to do this for the rest of my life? Knowing I could have stopped it, knowing I could have saved her?

The truth is: I can't.

I can't do it.

I'm not strong enough.

I lay my head down on the stone, closing my eyes and breathing in the cold night air.

"Tell me," I whisper to her, looking up at the stars, "How do I keep on living?"

I stare at the sky, hoping to get some sort of answer.

I don't.

"Please, tell me how to keep going. To keep fighting. Please. I'm so sorry. I am so sorry." I sob, "Please just come back to me, I can't live without you."

I curl up, shoving my face on my knees, catching the tears, soaking my jeans.

I will always have that memory of that night; forever etched into my mind, forever haunting me. There isn't a thing I can do about it.

"I'm so sorry."