Dear Nicole,

I’ve already written you a few things. I still haven’t sorted everything out that I’m thinking and feeling right now, because you just died three days ago. So I apologize for the rambling, but you know how I am.

The main thing is…I’m so mad at you. I’m so mad that you didn’t call me or Carrie after your car accident. And I know why you didn’t call - you knew we’d make you go to the hospital. But you were too tough. You didn’t need help. You were fine. And sure, you were a strong chick. But you wouldn’t ever ask for help, no matter how much you needed it, and that may ultimately be why you died.

I’m mad because it didn’t have to end this way. I’m mad that you knew how much I cared about you, but you pushed me away anyways, in your guardedness. And I’m mad at myself. I should have just went ahead and bothered you all the time anyways, just to make sure everything was okay. Maybe I didn’t make it clear enough how much you meant to me. Not many people knew the real you. I wish that hadn’t been the case. Not many people knew how sad you were, how scared, how lonely. You never said you were, but I know you were. I’m sorry for that. I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you more, and sorry that I got so caught up in my own life that I just assumed you’d be okay, and that you’d be here forever. Because obviously, I was wrong.

So now your girls don’t have their mommy. I feel the worst for them, especially your baby girl. I hope that whoever ends up with her makes sure she knows how special she is. I hope they love her as much as you did.

It’s times like this I wish I believed that you were still around somewhere, that you could hear me, or see these words. I wish I believed that you’re in a better place, because I think that might make this easier. Nevertheless, I find myself talking to you anyways. For some reason, almost every time I go in the bathroom, I start talking to you. Maybe because it’s quiet and private in there, and I don’t feel as silly betraying my lack of belief. I keep going back to look at your pictures. I look at your last post on Facebook, watching the time since you wrote it slip away, panicking at the thought of your last minutes getting further away from me. Like if I could just stop time from moving, I could go back and stop this from happening. But time continues to go by, and your death just gets more real, and it gets harder.

I am dreading your funeral next week. I know how these things go. You won’t look right. I wish they’d let me fix your hair one last time, but then again, maybe that’s not such a good idea. I know seeing you, laying there in your casket is gonna make it all hit home. How can you really be gone? How did this happen? Twenty seven isn’t old enough to die.

I think about your last moments and wonder if you knew what was happening. If you knew the end was coming. Was it painful? Were you scared? God, I hope not. The saddest part for me, though, is knowing that you were alone. I wish I could have been there, if not to help you, then to at least let you know that you were never alone. You were always in my thoughts, and you will continue to be, for the rest of my life.

I love you, girly.

Your friend,
Ursula, age 27