Six years ago today, I lost a friend to suicide. That was the first time I knew what suicide actually meant. You know, you read the news and papers and they talk about so-and-so killed himself and God-knows-who jumped in front of the train and my family and I would go “damn, that’s harsh”.

Until my friend took her own life, I never knew what suicide was. I never knew why, I never asked, although I desperately had wanted to know.

She was a lovely girl, she wore bright clothes to make up for her pale skin, and she had words that moved people, she had lips that made her audiences cry. She had hundreds of words that would shatter thousands of worlds, and I never knew what it was that gave her these powers.

Every year, I stand at where she stood, and I try to feel what she felt. The fact that I am typing this proves that every year, I fail.

Today I read this and I wonder loudly to myself, the same as you probably have.

I don’t remember the last time I cried.

Thank you for your words, and thank you for your reminders that you have planted in your readers (you may or may not have realised this but for which I am still grateful).