The key they'd given me still fit the lock, but the house no longer felt like home. This was just an empty house, full of memories, but absent of life.

Without her, this place felt hollow. Like somehow, she was the missing piece, the spark that brought everything to life. The room felt quieter, the air thicker, the time much longer.

I could feel her presence all around. The memories were laughing at me, cruelly taunting me of her absence. I could still hear her laugh through the walls, as if she was still here, teasing me with the emptiness she left behind. The pictures on the wall were staring at me, as if I was the one to blame for her death. The mug she was always using was longing for her. Her place on the couch was mourning her loss.

I was envious that they still had time with her, when life stopped for me the day she died.

But the worst of all was her bedroom. This singular place was her world. Nothing changed. Her furnitures are still where they were the last time she was here. Being here without her feels wrong. Like the very essence of the place was missing.

I was trapped in my own sorrow and I needed someone to get me out of my misery.

Because without her I was lost.

She was the one lightening my path, the one making my life easier. She was my anchor; and her absence was making me drift in the depth of the sea, without anything to catch me.

She was my home.

But she will never get to know how much she means to me. Never know how many people are grieving her. Never get to grow up, go to college, have a boyfriend, experience what teenagers should experience.

Life is unfair. It gives you the world; and then, without a warning, steal everything that has a meaning. Leaving you with this void, urging me to fill it with sense.