There are many strange things that happen in life; strange occurrences, strange feelings, strange settings. Some are stranger than others; some aren’t that strange at all. But then there are some things, which are so undeniably strange that it gnaws at the front of someone’s mind.

     It was gnawing at yours.

     It was – is strange, really, how many things you miss when she’s gone.

     The softness of her hand in yours, the songs she used to sing as your eyes fluttered shut, the feeling of pure contentment when her lips met yours.

     But you can’t even remember what her voice sounded like, only that it could lull you to sleep or set you on fire. You don’t remember if it was her left or right hand that held yours firmly, only that she would rub her thumb over your then prickling skin. You can’t even recall what her lips felt like, whether they were smooth or rough, urgent or sweet; but you assumed it could be either, depending on the situation.

     That’s why it’s strange, because you knew everything, but you remember nothing.

     You remember the way her hair parted slightly to the left, the bleached strands that used to tickle your skin until you giggled, the same strands that you tugged on in the throes of passion, the same strands you sifted through as you lay wrapped in each other’s arms. You remember her glowing eyes, and the way they only looked at you, flecks of golden syrup swimming in the chocolate orbs. You remember her laugh, her smile, the way her pulse raced against you whenever you were nearby, the way her glasses sat askew on the bridge of her nose; you remember it all.

     And you hate yourself for it.

     It’s all your fault, you think. You think maybe if you hadn’t rushed her, maybe if you had told her it was okay to stay back after work instead of being so clingy, maybe if you had just thought about what she wanted to do for once.

     But that was then, and this is now.

     And now, it’s all your fault.

     According to the police, it was a quick way to go, and luckily so, because it sounded painful. So, so painful. There was a truck in front of her car; the driver clearly hadn’t tightened the restraints properly; because if he did, that one pole wouldn’t have come loose.

     If he did, it wouldn’t have crashed through the driver’s side of the window. If he did, it wouldn’t have lurched forward at over eighty kilometres an hour. If he did, it wouldn’t have pierced through the entire right half of her head.

     It was your fault, it was his too.

     That pathetic driver, that horrible excuse of a person. It was his fault for not setting up his equipment properly. It was your fault, because you told her to hurry back because you missed her.

     And because of that, you’re going to miss her forever.

     You’ll miss the way she made fun of you, the way her arms would tighten around you, the way she would always cheer you up if you were down. You’ll miss the way she told you she loved you, you’ll miss the way she opened doors for you and pulled chairs out for you, you’ll miss her song recommendations and her book suggestions, you’ll miss her toothy grin and her tugged lips.

     Your feet hit the stone cold pavement as you stop walking, eyes dropping to the floor beneath. The cement is colder than it was yesterday, maybe because it was winter, maybe because inside your chest was nothing more than ice.

     You drop to your knees, hands fiddling with the silver ring between your fingers. You looped it through each one of your fingers, a trick she had taught you back in high school, when you were sure it was nothing more than a crush that you felt for her.

     A sad but fond smile graced your lips as you looked back towards the ring, eyes tracing over the engraving inside the way you had the first time you saw it. She got you one to match, because she wanted her confession to be perfect to you. That was a month after she taught you how to twirl a pen, and you were sure it was much more than a crush by then.

     You placed the ring atop the stone you had become so acquainted with, eyes beginning to sting. You wished you could have a future together, you both did. When you couldn’t sleep, and even when you could sleep, she would tell you about how she wanted to spend the rest of her life with you. It never failed to make you smile, because you could never envision a more perfect future.

     But that was gone now, and it’s your fault, and it’s the driver’s fault, and it’s the pole’s fault, and it’s everyone’s fault but hers. She didn’t deserve this, no one deserved this. Especially someone like her, someone humorous, someone sarcastic, someone artistic, someone with so much potential; just anyone but her.

     You could still feel your heart clench at the thought of her, and you wondered if you’d ever be able to let go.

     As the first splatters of rain settle on your clothing and brows, you realise you probably won’t.

     “I hate you,” You muttered, raising your hands to your face. “I hate you.”

     The words burned at your throat, the muscles inside threatening to close over.

     You felt wetness on your hand, hot and streaky. But you convinced yourself it was the rain.

     “I love you,” You say this time, and you’re not sure which of your statements is more true. “I hate you for leaving, I hate you for not keeping your promises, I hate you so much because I just wish I could be with you, just standing next to you. I ing love you, and I ing hate you. I love you so ing much, you stupid, stupid idiot.”

     You had to stop to breathe. As much as you wanted to join her, you knew she’d yell at you if you did any time soon.

     “Please,” It left you in a rasp, and you weren’t even sure why you were begging for something that clearly can’t be given. “Please, Amber.”

     The name rolled off your tongue easily; after all, it had been second nature to you since the fourth grade. You had been friends for so long, longer than you had ever been together. But you were always together, whether it was platonic or not.

     Icy wind crashed against you, swaying your body to the left. You paid no mind to it, nothing seemed cold anymore, nothing could become more frostbitten than the tips of your fingers, the edge of you mind, or the corners of your heart.

     “Just come back,” It was a whisper this time, your body had curled in on itself, and you could feel the heartbeat you didn’t want pound against your thighs. “Please.”

     Of course, you were met with no response. Just the usual blank slate of stone, the same chiselled name staring back at you, a constant reminder that it is her, that there are no tricks or pranks this time. This time, it’s for real. This time, she won’t apologise afterwards and shower you with kisses; this time, she won’t make you dinner after you accept her apology.

     This time, it’s just you. Just you going home by yourself for another night, pulling on one of her oversized hoodies, watching her favourite movie, and crying. Always crying.

     And you realised, it’s going to be this way for a long time.

A/N: I don't know why I wrote this, I'm sorry I wrote this, I hate that I wrote this. This is just . . . I don't like this at all. I'm sorry for making you all think it was Mask or something a lot better than this, and I'm sorry that this is so depressing and awful

I really hope to get Mask updated soon, though, to save myself from writing something like this again