Do you remember the last thing you said to me? The last thing you did to me? And what was the last thing I said to you? Because trust me when I said it I knew it was the last thing I’d ever say.

He looks out into the empty street, allowing me to sit in his car and just miss her. To miss her each time I pull in a breath of air. To miss her with a heart that feels so cold by itself, but warm when thoughts of her flow through me.

I hate not knowing what to believe anymore. I hate not knowing what's real.

Will I ever get control of my life? Will I always be shoved back and pushed around by those I trust?

I could picture life—school and everything else—continuing on without me. But I could not picture my funeral. Not at all. Mostly because I couldn’t imagine who would attend or what they would say.

I left. When I should have stayed.

The longer you wait, and this is true, the slower the hands will move.