Mira died three days after the hospital visit. No one else got the opportunity to see her; she was in too rough of shape and the nurses didn't want to add anymore stress on top of everything she was dealing with. Lucy was almost glad that she alone saw Mira—not in a selfish way, not because she wanted to be the last to lay eyes on her friend. No, Lucy was glad none of her friends from the facility saw Mira in such an awful state because she knew it would break their hearts.

It broke hers.

No one took the news about Mira well. Juvia waived everyone's mandatory schedules, instead opting to let everyone grieve; she held a brief group therapy session in the evening for anyone who needed support. No one came.

Everyone grieved differently.

Laxus paced his dorm room, heart hammering, stomach in knots; he slammed his fist into the wall, punching a hole through the drywall. He couldn't believe she was gone. He tried to think of every single moment of Mira he could remember, every time she'd blown him away with her humor or her wits or her charm. But all that came up was the memory of him in the cafeteria, accidentally looking over at her across the room; sun was streaming through the big windows and setting her aglow. She was laughing with Erza and Lucy, a beautiful grin on her face, her whole expression lit up with joy. That was it. That was Mira, right there. Unknowingly beautiful.

Gray wandered the facility. He hadn't been particularly close with the girl, but it was hard not to like her—she talked to anyone about anything without hesitation. The thought that Mira was gone was astounding—enough to get his anxiety really going. So, he walked. He paced, thinking about every time he'd seen her smile. His stomach was a puddle of anxiety. His heart hammered, and he felt like passing out, like the world was caving in on him and there wasn't a single thing he could do about it. He went over the techniques Juvia had talked with him about, he focused on his breathing. Did it matter? Did feeling anxious fucking matter when his friend was dead?

Gajeel stayed in bed, hidden under the covers. He was stressed, emotionally fucked up because this totally pure and innocent angel had lost her life over a stupid illness. In the past, when he was this upset about something, he'd shoot up. Grab an arm band, grab a needle, get it done. Or he'd grab some coke, make a rail, snort the sadness away. Anything to make the pain stop temporarily. But now he couldn't. He was past that point. He was going to get better—he'd made the promise to himself. So, he pulled his curtains closed, hauled his blankets over his face, and stayed there, not moving until the urge to inject or snort or smoke something had subsided. He was there a while.

Erza broke down. Screams emitted from her lips, filling the dorm room; she'd never felt so alone. Lucy tried to help, but Erza was beyond anyone's assistance; she was no longer at the facility, no longer in her tiny little dorm room. She was blind—her PTSD attacking her, consuming her senses. Now, she was at the scene of the crash. The car was behind her, flipped and smashed, the smell of burnt rubber in the air. She was crying, hair full of blood. She turned to the car, all too familiar with this scene: she'd been hit by a drunk driver, who had been thrown from his vehicle in the crash. He was dead on impact. She, on the other hand, would survive—with unfortunate injuries to her arms, legs, as well as a punctured lung and broken ribs. But this scene—the one before her—was different than the usual haunting image. No, this time, there was no drunk driver. One vehicle on the side of the road, not two. This was different. And instead of a dead drunk driver strewn across the road, this time, there was a pale, thin girl with white hair laying limp on the highway. Erza screamed, dashing forwards, but she knew it was too late; she flipped the girl over, bursting into tears once she realized what was happening. Mira was dead, thin little body broken and bloody on the freeway. Erza leaned back and screamed, blinded by the hallucination. The guards came, eventually, and escorted Lucy out; they strapped Erza down while she screamed and thrashed, sobbing about her best friend. She broke down for hours until her body physically couldn't stay awake anymore, and she fell asleep. When she slept, Erza saw the same image: Mira, dead. When Erza awoke, she was still trapped in the hallucination. It was a nonstop repeat of the same horrifying episode.

Lucy had begun her grieving by sitting in her room, crying with Erza—until the redhead's PTSD meltdown began. Lucy tried to awake her, begging her friend to return to her normal self, desperate not to lose another best friend to their issues; the guards came, and Lucy was ushered out of the room. The last thing she saw was Erza being held down, screaming bloody murder. Unable to calm down and having nowhere to go, Lucy went to the only safe haven she knew—Natsu's rooftop. She made her way there quickly, subconsciously hoping Natsu was there to help ease her mind. And when she swung open the rooftop door, she found him.

It was still the middle of winter out at the facility—a stark contrast to their recent beach getaway—so his breath huffed out in milky clouds. He was wearing his normal attire, his facility uniform all torn to shreds and altered in the form of a vest.

Natsu had perched himself on the edge of the roof, legs dangling over the edge freely. He was looking down at the ground, a blank expression on his face.

She'd gone over to him, asking him if he was okay; he hadn't replied. She'd urged him further, asking for something, and all he'd given her was a meek 'I'm sorry'. Upset, Lucy asked if she'd done something wrong, if she'd hurt his feelings—he'd ensured that she hadn't.

He said he had some thinking to do, and left.

And that was it.

So Lucy cried on the rooftop, feeling incredibly alone—more alone than she ever had. Mira was gone. Completely. She was no longer alive. There would be no more sarcastic jokes or educating conversations about the best foundation makeup for every skin tone. There would be no more sitting in the cafeteria, laughing about whatever gossip Mira had supposedly heard that day. It was all over.

Lucy had lost one of her best friends. One of her only friends. And now, Natsu wouldn't even talk to her.

Everything was falling apart.

The funeral was held two days after she passed away. Mira's family had invited anyone from the facility to attend, which everyone greatly appreciated.

Gajeel, Gray, Erza and Lucy attended. Erza had come to, and was now aware. Depressed and horrified, but aware. Juvia drove them. The ride was silent and rather quick. The others—Natsu and Laxus and the rest of the group—didn't attend. They all had their own reasons for not going and paying their respects. No one questioned it.

The service was lovely, highlighting everything good about Mira. Everyone at the funeral burst into tears by the end—she'd impacted everyone so completely, it was hard not to cry knowing she was gone. She was buried, and everyone lay pink roses on her grave.

When Lucy began to cry, Gajeel held her hand. She noted that his hand was shaking as he tried to hold back tears.

It was a terrible time, but it had brought them together. This boy...someone she'd barely spoken to when she'd arrived. But here he was, supporting her. And she was supporting him. It was friendship, in its purest form. This tragic loss, this destructive heartbreak...it had brought them together.

Her gravestone read 'Mirajane Strauss: forever loved, forever beautiful'.

The drive home was less silent; Lucy and Erza cried. Gajeel patted Lucy's back, trying to comfort her in his own awkward little way. Lucy was grateful for any sort of comfort; she was absolutely falling apart. Totally broken. She didn't know what to do, where to go from here.

The urge to cut had been strong. Too strong. It was getting worse with every passing second, and Lucy didn't know how to cope. She'd lost a friend, saw the disturbing reality of what mental illness could do to a person. And yet, her own mental illness came knocking—loudly. Too loudly to ignore.

But Lucy persisted, not falling victim to her own mind's tricks. She knew better.

She had seen Mira in the hospital, a few days before she died. She had seen mental illness in its most true form. She'd seen the horrifying consequences mental illness had on people. Mira had just wanted to be pretty—Lucy simply wanted to deal with the pain. Both had a goal in mind, both had stupid ways they thought they could attain their goals. Mira starved herself—Lucy sliced her wrists.

But Lucy had seen Mira. She'd seen what happened when you let your mind take charge. She'd seen what happened when you gave yourself up to your illness, when you didn't fight, when you didn't want to get better.

Mental illness wasn't pretty. It was real, and it was ugly, and it fucking killed people. It killed Mira. It killed many others. It would kill Lucy, if she let it.

So she kept going. She cried and sobbed and didn't sleep a wink for a week straight, but there wasn't a single moment where Lucy wasn't motivated to fight the good fight. She wasn't going to give in. She refused. She would destroy her illness. She would overcome it.

For her sake. And in Mira's memory. She couldn't let Mira's lessons go to waste.

She was going to get better.

Edited 23/06/18.