You tried, really.
For three months you tried to be everything you couldn't give her and never would be able to (at least, that's what you thought was the reason why she visited you and your crappy garage and your lukewarm cans of soda so much; it wasn't all just because you thought she thought that she actually motherfucking liked you the way you liked her) and, in the end, you still failed her.
So badly.
And the worst part of it all is is that, sometimes, she still looks up at you through unfocused eyes, reminiscing, like those three months of her un-undead—mortal—your tongue burns at the simple thought of the word—life were worth it.
Maybe they were. Maybe they weren't, you'll never know.
But someday they could have been.