It had been very long since the mysterious disappearance of my best friend. Longer than it should’ve been, perhaps. All those years, it just felt like yesterday. I had gently opened her door, and she was gone. Without any trace, without any sign of just what she had gotten herself into. Sometimes I wondered if it was my fault. Suppose I were better at seeing the signs, if I were better at everything enough. Everyone around me used to tell me the same thing before they moved on and forgot about her: “It’s not your fault”. And I believed that. I knew it wasn’t my fault, but could anyone really blame me? A girl I spent over half of my life with, deciding to leave before my eyes?
I don’t remember how much I stared at the invitation to her funeral. The post seemingly hadn’t even bothered to leave it at the front of our door, just shoving it into the mailbox like it was a casual Sunday’s mail. I had hated how normalized somebody’s death was in this world nowadays. It had also taken me a while to realize the impromptu funeral was in a couple of hours, so I hurried to get there on time.
I had stood near her casket -which, by the way, didn’t even contain her body inside-, decorated by her favorite flowers. I watched as her mom walked all the way to the front and began her speech. I hadn’t really understood what she was saying — I never did. For years, I had been letting my hope sprout, had been hanging onto the thought that maybe, just maybe, she was alive. Out there. Somewhere.
Perhaps that sprout of hope will never grow.