I hate remembering that you actually did it. I hate remembering that we weren't enough.
I hate remembering that I could've stopped you. Or delayed it, at least.
It's irrational, but it all feels like my fault. I had a way to call you, text you, and reach out that morning. But I didn't.
I'm so sorry. I should've been there.
I hate remembering that I wasn't enough.
I never would've been to you anyway, though. I was just a moment in your eighteen years.
I was only your little sister for four.
I miss you.
I hate that I have to miss you.
