After You

Willow

Alfie,

I'm worried about Jess. I know we were never best friends – I'm sure she saw me as an intruder on the friendship the two of you had, and I was always slightly jealous of all the in-jokes and memories you shared – but she's still a friend, and I think she's going off the rails. She hardly ever comes to school any more, and I think she's going to fail all of her exams. She came in for one day last week, and she looked awful.

I feel terrible. I don't want to make this all about me, but I do feel very guilty. She's clearly been struggling for a while, and we've all been so wrapped up in our own heads that we haven't noticed it. The group has drifted apart since you've been gone; we barely talk to one another any more. I speak to Jacob occasionally, and I've had a few conversations with Max, but I don't think Jess and I have said two words to one another since the funeral. We used to speak all the time – we all did. Now the only person I spend any real time with is Finn.

That brings me to my next worry. Alfie, I know people are going to hate me for this. People are going to turn on me and call me every name under the sun and accuse me of doing all sorts before you died. Finn told me that he wrote a letter to you last week explaining the kiss in July. I want to apologise for not telling you, and to apologise if that played any part in your decision to do what you did. I hope beyond hope that we weren't responsible for your suicide, but all I can do now is apologise.

I want to be Finn's girlfriend. People are going to tell me that five months is nothing and we were obviously dating behind your back for months before you died, but we weren't. I've had enough of sneaking around and being someone I'm not, and I want to leave that in the past. Finn and I work well together, we like each other a lot. I feel as though I need your blessing to start a relationship with him, and this is the closest thing I'll get to it. These letters seem to get shorter every time I write to you, and I feel awful for that.

I used to tell you everything.

Not everything, I suppose, but a lot. Now I feel that I even need to hide things from you. You've known me in a way that no-one else has, and I feel that I need to disguise myself from the memory of you, as though even that will judge me and hate me for what I'm doing. I'm trying to do the right thing; to be honest and open and to start over again.

Please, please don't hate me.

Willow