The tombstone is cool underneath your shaking hand.

“Hey,” you whisper, your voice shaking like the blades of grass that tremble ever so slightly in the slight summer breeze. “It’s been a while.”

She’s beautiful-

is the only thing you can think as she trips over herself on the way to the podium to receive her elementary school diploma.

It’s the first and last time you’ll ever fall in love.

The air smells of bittersweet hellos and sentiment. It burns in your throat, and you swallow hard, squatting down so you’re at eye level with the searing words engraved into the granite.

“I’m Mia,” she says, as if you didn’t already know, as if you hadn’t already known for more than half of your insignificant life.

“Ryan,” you reply.

She smiles, and you-

blink as tears brim in your eyes.

“You didn’t have to go,” you whine, your voice raspy as you desperately trace your fingers through the date of death on the stone. “You didn’t have to go.”

“You know, when I was little I wanted to be a princess,” she says, laying down on the hill with her legs stretched out. Sitting up, you look down at her, and see an angel ready to fly.

“But you know, that was silly. And I’ve grown up now,” she says, her eyes sliding over to look at you. You gulp, and nod.

She laughs and looks up at the sky-

where not a single cloud is in sight. It’s the perfect summer day, yet here you are, reliving the same moments over and over in your head like a broken record.

The tombstone is a startling ebony that contrasts with the pearly marble of the rest of the cemetery. You place your bouquet of white roses delicately in front of it, the nostalgic smell-

slowly wafting into your nostrils as you hand her a single crimson rose, looking down at your feet.

She gasps, almost inaudibly, before you feel cold fingers draping over your hand.

The touch is brief and electric. She gently takes the flower from you and drops the other bouquets she is holding, the other bundles of exotic blossoms and passionate buds.

The rest of the flowers fall dejectedly to the floor as she raises her hand. Carefully and methodically, she fixes it into her hair.

The single vermillion rose stands out in the midst of her midnight black hair.

“Thank you,” she whispers, and the flower petals crunch beneath your feet as you step-

away from the gravestone because the voices are coming and you don’t want to hear them anymore.

You shake your head, and the tears begin to fall; streams pour through the crevices in your hollowed out cheeks, and your shoulders shake as your hand-

grabs hers and squeezes it tightly.

She stares at you intensely. Your heart is about to beat out of your chest.

It’s so intoxicating it hurts, and you need to-

breathe as it all comes rushing back to you, the night when she waved and kissed you good-bye and-

she squeezes back and you’re shaking as her eyes flutter shut and the aroma of forgotten roses-

comes back to haunt you as you see her, running across the street, her ebony hair flying behind her like an shadowy halo that-

wraps around you like the chains of regret and hate over your heart. You are locked away and your throat clamps up because you’re still waiting for her-

to turn around and see her rose has fallen out.

“Oh, I’ll get it,” she says, giggling, and she turns around to pick it up.

The smile she gives the single bud as she bends over to pick it up is so much more gentle than you have ever seen. For the first time, your emotions bubble up and over and you-

scream because the world is still spinning and the day is still going and you are still living but she’s not.

The weight on your shoulders is heavy and you sink to your knees, opening your mouth to-

shout the three words you know she longs to hear.

You open your mouth and breathe-

and everything comes crashing down.

The lights of the large truck are reflected in her frightened eyes as she stares at you before disappearing like a fleeting image.

You scream and scream and scream and scream because that moment will never leave you; that moment when you stop breathing and your eyes go dizzy as you see streaks of vermillion on the asphalt and a down-trodden rose.

Her chocolate eyes and ebony hair and the way she said your name will never leave you.

The fleeting picture of her, poised, and smiling at the small rose you had given her like it was the world wrapped up in small velvet red petals, will never leave you.

The white roses are pure, unstained from the world’s hideousness.

It contrasts against the dusky granite of her tombstone.

Silently, you drop a single red rose, before walking out of the cemetery.