I stand at the school gate waiting for you to get out of History. We always walk home together, and today it’s important because I need to ask you why you said what you did? That no one would care if you died today. I would care. I always care.

You don’t come. I stand there until all the buses leave and then trudge home, more worried than ever. You always worry me.

I push through the front door but it’s blocked by a big old box. I tuck my tummy in and slide through. The box’s flaps stand up and in it I can see a pair of purple socks and I know it’s from you. Purple socks is our thing; that’s why I have twenty pairs. I pick them up and a note falls out. I’m sorry.

Instantly my heart quickens and I rifle through the box. There are handmade cards I gave you, dolls from when we were five, and a bottle of pills.

Now it’s all crystal clear and I sprint out of the front door but I know it’s too late.
-—-
“You’ll know if I go,” she had said. “I’ll make sure you find me. I don’t want anyone else to find me.”