I Live To Let You Shine
One humid summer night, after too much red wine—Hungarian wine, the cheap kind—Mona and I had the brilliant idea to write each other’s obituaries. It made sense at the time. If one of us died (which seemed impossible, which seemed like it would never happen), we’d already have something written, something honest. We sat in opposite corners of her bedroom with paper and pens and just… wrote. I wrote nothing but bullshit. You can read it yourself.
You’re sitting on your beanbag chair, grinning at me, laughing like an idiot while you’re probably writing the worst things you can think of about me. But I can do it too, watch. When you die, I can finally tell the truth about you. That you’re too stupid to fill your iPod by yourself. That you call your dad whenever you see a ladybug. That you burn literally everything when we try to cook something decent. So there.
But then I think about a time when you’re just… gone. Not there. Not with me. And it hits different. The joking stops. You’re quieter now, can you feel what I’m feeling? The thought of never hugging you from behind again, never hearing that stupid laugh when I try to be funny, not being able to sleep because you’re singing off-key in the bathroom—it terrifies me. No, Mona, we’re never going to die. We’re going to be immortal.
And now my keyboard is getting soaked through because I’m crying and I’m publishing this and it will never be good enough for you. I’ll never forgive myself for not being there in your last moments. We’re going to stay like this forever: young and free and beautiful. I miss you. My best friend died in a car accident last night.