I felt my heart pounding, bound to beat right out of my chest. And I heard the mourning whispers through the crowds of people, "she was so beautiful" and "I thought she was happy" But none of them knew her, really knew her, at least, not like I did. And that angered me, the way they talked of her as if they were her best friend. But they weren't, they couldn't have been, because I was, and always will be. But now she's dead and I have no one: no best friend, no one to share my hopes and dreams, my secrets and regrets with. So thats why I'm trembling in my multi-coloured ensemble at her depressing funeral. She wouldn't have wanted it to be so melancholy; she would have wanted streamers and a celebration. She would have wanted everyone happy and cheery, laughing and smiling, 'Hey ! We're alive !" Because she was happy and free.... for the most part. And why wouldn't she be ? She was gorgeous, I mean, stunning; her smile radiated a glow of perfect pearly whites, and her eyes, as blue as the Gulf of Mexico, lost you like a maze. And she was smart and the sweetest girl you could ever come in contact with; she was confident and quirky and endearing. Why wouldn't she be happy ? She was lost and terrified. Her thoughts were hidden. What was she thinking ? "I have to get out of this rat-hole. How might I best hide my tracks ? Who have I become ? And where am I going ? Why can't I sleep at night ? I don't want her to see me like this...." I only wish I knew. But I didn't, and sadly, I still don't. Thats why I'm trapped in a crowd of black, people who never even spoke to her, might not have even known her name, are mourning her. This isn't right.