elizabeth's hatbox

twenty-six;

dear noah,

it's been four months since i last wrote to you.

it's true that you can never get over the death of somebody that you held special to your heart, somebody you loved, trusted, looked up to. it's true, it's one hundred per cent true.

but you can always recover from the pain it caused you. you can always, always lock down the hurt you felt deep inside and put and end to the living dead phase that you might be going through. someday or the other, you have to.

and so that's what i decided to do.

i don't know why you died, noah. no one does, actually. it's you and only you; you kept everything inside yourself. you let nothing out and maybe, just maybe, the suicide thing people assumed about you is true.

i'd dig deeper, but i know you'd hate me for doing that. remember when you stopped talking to me for hours and hours because i'd gone through your stuff one day?

hah. i need to stop these remember when things because of course you don't remember. you're dead, and that's something i have to accept. in fact, you know why i've chosen this day to write you after all this time?

because it's been one year since you left us.

happy first deathday, noah clifton. this might be the last letter i write to you.

i love you.

sara-emmaline.

p.s.  i'll miss you. these letter things sort of kept you alive in my eyes all along. so bye, i guess.

p.p.s. i love you. i always have.

p.p.p.s. i wonder what you'd have done if you'd known about elizabeth's death. it's sorted out now. most of them know what actually happened. but no one knows about the letters. it's our secret alone; your, mine, breigh's and elizabeth's.

p.p.p.p.s. i love you. mum and dad love you. all your friends love you. and maybe, i guess elizabeth loved you too.