Maybe it was suicide, I don't know yet. I never got a chance to thank her for what she did. She wouldn't talk to me, or I would have told her that at least one person from her past was able to love whoever it was she had been hiding inside.
She was a nurse.
She loved dancing.
She had real style.
I loved her, but I never got to know who she was. Her story was never about me, after all, and perhaps the greatest regret of my life is that, for a time, I seemed to think it was. Now, my greatest regret may be that I'll never know her at all.
Help exists.
You are loved.
It gets better.
These are too trite by half, but I need you to believe them.
