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I killed myself in December last year.

That Christmas, there was no Christmas tree. There was no happy music playing. And there were no family dinners.

My friends couldn't keep their heads up. They spent hours in their rooms. Screaming at nothing. Screaming that they'd do anything for me to come back. And I was confused because I thought and believed that people would be happier without me.

5 months after I died, it was April. The flowers were blooming, the leaves were turning green once again; spring was starting. But I still hadn't seen my friends or family smile like they had when I was around.

I started to think maybe people did love me. Maybe I was the one that made their lives worth living. Maybe I was the only one who triedto make that boyin math class smile everyday. Because I knew what it was like to not be able to laugh. And now he has a reason to smile.

Maybe people did miss me. And maybe people really did care about me.

Too bad they didn't start showing it until I was gone.

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