It's been a year now. One whole, agonising year. And yet it's still in excruciatingly clear detail. Mistakes; that's all they were. Stupid, predetermined mistakes. Sleep was avoiding me as I lay in my bed, darkness everywhere but my head. No one knew what it was like, to see his face every time I closed my eyes, to hear his voice every time silence passed. Torture. There was no other word for it.
I was fifteen then, quite a popular girl at school, but that didn't help. None of that helped. How could someone feel so lonely when they had so many friends? They weren't there, they didn't know. All they knew was that he was dead. True, we had all cried over him, the whole school had. But I was the only one who watched it happen. And that was widely known. People thought I should have been able to do something. Trust me, if I could have done anything, anything at all, I would have done it.