It became, D can never tell me this again.
She's gone.
She's gone, and she'd hate the guy I've become.
She's gone, and she hurt all that time, and she didn't know how to tell me.
And, yeah, some of that is on her. But a lot of it is on me too.
How could she tell a guy who ran from any hint of depth that she was depressed? Suicidal?
Who could?
I didn't see that.
For a long time, I didn't see that. I'm not even sure when I saw it.
Only that I never would have seen it without her.
I would never have understood without her.
Is it still an excuse? I don't know.
She was a life raft, and I was drowning.
What else could I have done?
I wanted, so badly, to understand why my sister took her life, and there she was, an open book. I fell in love with the honesty. The understanding. The openness.
I got addicted to the feeling of taking.
I didn't need my life raft anymore. I wasn't thriving, but I was treading water. I was surviving.
I understood.
Not enough. But enough to go out on my own and look for understanding.
I didn't see it. I told myself I didn't know enough. And, yeah, I kept reading, and I kept learning.
But it was more than an intellectual or emotional curiosity.
I fell in love with her.
Here.
And then there.
I didn't know at first. At least, I didn't think I knew. But maybe I always did. Maybe some part of me knew I captured some part of her.
Maybe that's why I answered her call.
Okay, that's BS. It's because she's fine as fuck.
Okay, that's BS too. She is fine as fuck. But I wasn't accepting booty calls at that point. It was the way she looked at me, the way she asked, point-blank for what she wanted.
I told myself this was my insight into her head, and it was.
But she was always honest with me.