Nyctophilia

Thirty-Two.

Mrs. Wilson came over yesterday. She told Mom and I that the funeral would be held next Friday, which is four days from now. The whole time she talked, I just stood there, not believing what was happening.

My.

Best.

Friend.

Is.

Dead.

When my mom left the room, Mrs. Wilson pulled me to the side. She told me that Lilly wanted me to have something. I just stared at her messy hair and red eyes, not really processing what she was saying. Then it clicked, I nodded, and she led me outside.

On the porch, there was a bag. From this bag, she withdrew a book. She handed it to me gingerly, as if either one of us would break from the contact. On closer inspection, I saw it wasn't just any book: it was Lilly's journal.

I remembered fleetingly that I had gotten her this journal for her fourteenth birthday. I guess she didn't use it till now.

The memories hurt me, and I took my mind off it by asking, "Why?"

It was one word, but Mrs. Wilson understood what I meant. She took the journal from me, opened it to the first page, then handed it over again. On the back of the front cover, in Lilly's familiar, messy handwriting, were the words For Isabelle. I know some things need cleared up.

I grasped the journal like it was my lifeline. In that moment, it was like she was there with me, like the handwriting, the thoughts she put into this book were the essence of her being. In the few days she has been dead, I hadn't cried at all. But now it was sinking in that she was really gone forever.

Mrs. Wilson said a simple "See you at the funeral" before leaving. Long after she left, I sat on the porch, switching between staring at the cloudless sky and the only thing left of Lilly. When the sky darkened and the stars came out, I went inside. The stars did nothing for me.

So here I am now. It's 4:34 AM, and I haven't slept yet. I'll probably just sleep away the day, I don't know. There's nothing else to do. I'll probably start reading Lilly's journal, too. I don't know about that, either.

Oh my God. My best friend is dead.