The weeks following her suicide felt like an ever-swinging wrecking ball. Masochism. Pain. And an overwhelming sense of loneliness. Life continued on and left me gasping for oxygen; is there any left in the atmosphere ? I spent my days curled up like a ball, leaning on her baby blue wall, taking in where we spent so many hours having bottomless conversations while sipping on our Low-carb Monsters. I felt so empty without her- not just because I hadn't eaten in thirty-six hours. Her walls were covered in photos of us, so happy; her boyfriend, with obvious malice intentions; her family, who genuinely didn't know her or even care- and that's just sad, because she was amazing. Her ideas were generic and, euphoric, even. She was an amateur comedian, with the sickest sense of humour. Perfect, all around. But she had no idea of the dangers of the modern world, the ideas that bloom in everyone's mind. Until one night, today took over, and broke everything inside her. She cut loose. Everything she ever cared for ceased, or at least, she thought. She convinced herself there were no genuine people on Earth, and well, there was no way in hell she would make it to Mars. But she didn't know how I felt for her, how much meaning she gave my life. Now, I'm sobbing in her bedroom, groping the off-white carpet, red faced, 'why me ?', ....'why her ?'