I was eleven the first time I died. And it’s okay, if you hate me for not having told you before.
Forgive me. I know I should have talked about it, just a little, about what happened back then.
But I couldn’t. I mean, I’ve been fighting so damn hard to try to forget, to move on. But each day I think about … what if I had opened up a little more, been a little more honest with you about what happened to me?
Then maybe you’d not have … Maybe you’d have understood that I knew how you felt – that you weren’t so alone as you thought. And then maybe I could have helped you in time … Continue reading