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 more, more about what happened back then. Not just gloss it over.
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 at that occasion?
Maybe it would have made the difference. Maybe it would have been the one thing of all the thousands of things I said that would have made the difference.
Then maybe you’d not have … Maybe you’d have understood – really understood – not just said you understood … that I knew exactly how you felt – and realized that you weren’t so alone as you thought with … it.