"More than a stunning debut. It is the announcement of a bold new literary voice"
—Stephen Chbosky, author of The Perks of Being a Wallflower

I have stopped counting the days after you were gone. For months now, I have avoided talking to anyone about you. Every time an old friend would come up to me and offer condolences, I just smile, tell them I’m fine and turn away. I did this to try to mask away the pain I’m feeling. But only now do I realize that the more I try to convince myself that I have accepted what happened by not revealing my true feelings, the more I can’t bring myself to face the truth, accept it and move on.

It’s hard to move on, Nicki. I don’t even know if I could. How could I, when all I could remember is your gentle smile and your sweet voice? Everywhere I look, I remember the softness of your dark hair, the way your deep brown eyes would tenderly look at me, the way you would say my name.

Nicki, I think you’re unfair and though I love you with such passion, I also hate you as much. I hate you because I think you’re selfish. I have too many things to say to you, too many things to ask, and I don’t even have a way of reaching you anymore.

When you decided to end your life, did you even think about the people you’re leaving behind? Did you even think that we would grieve? Did you remember that I promised I would be with you through your ordeal? Did you even consider that I would spend the subsequent days and nights crying over your loss?

Or did you think that you didn’t matter? Did you think that your death won’t mean anything to us?

I loved you, Nicki. And it meant a lot to me that you’re gone now. You’re gone and nothing can bring you back. And in my chest is a hollow space where my heart used to be. Not a day passes by when I don’t think of you, and not a night goes by that I don’t wish you’re here with me.

That fateful day, I received a phone call from your roommate. I rushed to the hospital, hoping against all hope that what Armand said wasn’t true. But then, I saw your lifeless body and I knew the suicide was real. For a time after that, I blamed Armand. He lived with you. He was always with you. He could’ve stopped you, convinced you not to do it, but he did not. But then again, how could Armand tell what was going on in your mind?

You never told us anything, did you, Nicki? When you succumbed to your depression, we couldn’t do anything to bring you out of the hole you dug for yourself. And I blamed myself for not trying hard enough. I always called out to you but the walls you built around yourself were way taller. I never managed to get through your barriers but, Nicki, I really did try. I’m sorry if I wasn’t always around. I’m sorry if I made promises I wasn’t able to keep. I’m sorry if I failed to find you.

Remember how we used to take walks in the park and just admire the view, just enjoy the feeling of being embraced by nature? Nicki, even after you’re gone, the stars still dot the vast expanse of the night sky, the wind still blows, the sun still shines up against the clouds. But without you, I find them almost meaningless.

However, I still find myself gazing at the sky each night. Maybe somewhere out there, in one of those stars, you are looking back at me.

I miss you so much, Nicki.