"Love you to the moon and Saturn..." I know how hard it is to say those words. I miss her too, y'know? It's not like I wanted her to die either. It's been two years since it happened, and 1 since we spoke. When you found out, it—it tore you apart. You didn't sleep for many nights. You probably still can't truly rest. I know. Remember how we used to go stargazing with her, when we were little? We'd bring sandwiches and bottles of soda and sit on the gingham–chequered red cloth, just chatting and having fun. I still have the cloth. And our basket. Eventually, as we got older and busier, it shifted to sitting in your room with our phones and cup noodles, and ending up sleeping over despite the exams the next week. Do you want the cloth? You can have it. I have—other ways of keeping her memory around. It will never be the same without her, of course. She was the stars to our night sky, lighting up our lives. And she will always have a place in my heart. I'm sorry. I should have picked up her call, let her know we were there for her. It's not your fault. It's mine. Now that I think about it, I should've let her come over the day before. Maybe I could've stopped it from happening. It's not your fault. It's not your fault that I declined the call while you were in the shower. It's not your fault that I never told you about her problems at home. None of it is your fault. It's mine. You've got to move on though. You need to let her go. Of course, we can still honour her memory. Think. Would she want you to waste your life mourning her? Or would she rather you go achieve your dreams? I have the letter she wrote to both of us that night—unopened. Meet me at the park tonight? Love you to the moon and Saturn, tonight I'll cry myself to sleep again. ~Affi, your best friend
