It's and old, old story: I had a friend and we shared everything, and then she died and so we shared that, too.

That she was irreplaceable became a bittersweet loyalty: Her death was what I had now instead of her.

You can’t change the tale so that you turned left one day instead of right, or didn’t make the mistake that might have saved your life a day later. We don’t get those choices. The story is what got you here, and embracing its truth is what makes the outcome bearable.

Maybe this is the point: to embrace the core sadness of life without toppling headlong into it, or assuming it will define your days.

The truth, or success, of any writer's story lies partly in its specificity and its emotional honesty.

I'd confused need with love and love with sacrifice.

What they never tell you about grief is that missing someone is the simple part.