You asked me whether you could tell me anything and trust that I wouldn't judge you for it; I said yes, but I didn't think you meant something like that.

You betrayed us all in the worst way possible. We pitied you, and you became one of us; we didn't, of course, think that it would end up like this.

I wonder sometimes whether you were double-crossing us all along.

You evidently had a problem with control, that much was obvious; so obvious that the others figured it out pretty soon. But did you really think I'd tell them?

Then you came back, and you lit up my life again. I knew I had a crush; but after you were gone for good, I realised how much more it really was.

To the others, though, you were the bad friend. The kid where everyone instinctively knows that something isn't right there. Of course, the something was actually everything. The others called you a traitor, and for a while I agreed. You'd tricked us into thinking you were a friend, given up everything you'd ever wanted, just for control over your powers. What sort of person does that?

But after you gave yourself up for the good of other people, I saw a huge empty hole in my life that you'd been filling and I'd never seen up till then. I was devastated, and I'm sure the others noticed, but they never mentioned it to me, nor I to them. I pretended to recover and get on with my life, but all the time I was feeling the absence of you cut holes in my heart, and tear me into pieces from the inside out.

You'd hurt us all bad, real bad, especially me; but I'd forgiven you for everything. How could I not, when I felt such love for you?

I went to visit your final resting place a lot. It became like some sort of sick addiction for me. I would go there to say hi, to talk when I was feeling down, sometimes for no reason at all; heck, I even went to celebrate your birthday when nobody else remembered, to say Merry Christmas, Happy Fourth of July, whatever excuse I could think of. In some twisted way, you were never more beautiful than you were frozen in stone, with your arms outstretched and your hair blown over to one side and your eyes staring at me. Your face looked so alive; I would talk to you and kid myself that you were listening to me, or maybe even talking back. I imagined what you were saying back to me as I stood or sat there or whatever with tears dripping out of my eyes.

In short, I never stopped loving you. Ever.

After we came back, though, from something we had to deal with, I was shocked to find you out of your tomb, breathing, walking, alive again. So I talked to you. But you had no memory of who you were before, who I was, your life with us, or anything like that. My heart shattered into pieces again. Maybe you were faking it, maybe you had amnesia, maybe it was too painful to remember, or maybe you were a totally different person. Whatever it was, you told me that things change, and I let it go.

But I guess I'll be with you again. Because of what I am, what I can do, I'm dying.

I'm eighteen now, and you would be in a few months if you hadn't gone before me. I don't know if you went to heaven or hell, or if those places even exist outside of the imagination, but what I do know is that I'll do anything to see you again.

Hey, maybe the schoolgirl was you. Maybe you'd just come back after she nearly destroyed the world and undid it again. But even if you're not there, I'm getting out , and then I'll just wait. You're only human, after all.

See you soon.