There were times when he couldn't remember his own name, let alone hers.
Most of those times, she didn't mind. She couldn't remember her name or his either.
She was halfway through her withdrawal when she died. I honestly didn't think he'd care, but he did, enough to make him quit after he decided we weren't going to let him die.
She didn't quit for him. She did it for me.
I wasn't her lover, by any means. But I wasn't just a friend either.
She was my sunshine, she was the best friend I ever had besides him. She knew when I was cold, or lonely, or hurting. I knew her as well. We cried for each others' losses and laughed for each others' joys.
All but one.
So when she came home one night and found his drugs thrown in his face because he was already stoned, and me crying in anger and frustration, she paused. Then grabbed my hand. I could see in her eyes, she hadn't known how much it hurt me.
"Just this once," she said, "then will you help me?"
I stared for a moment, unable to see what she meant, then nodded as I realized, pulling her into a tight hug, my eyes filling with tears.
I left to shoot film as she shot up. Even if it were her last time, I didn't want to be around for it.
She was halfway done. She would have made it.
Somewhere deep down, I still haven't forgiven either of them for getting HIV. It made one, and broke the other. Sometimes I wish their roles had been reversed.
Sometimes I was jealous of him, for having her attention.
Sometimes I was jealous of her, for having his.
But the past is the past, and it's bad luck to speak ill of the dead.
I lay a flower on her grave with one last glance, pick up my scarf, and trudge back towards home.