There was a girl that lived next to me once, back when I was still living in Texas. Still going to bed with sci-fi novels stacked up against the walls.
The girl had purple ribbons in her hair. Her laugh was loud and uproarious. Sometimes she babysat me as my mom ran off for a long day at the recording studio. When mom had left, she would sit down and tell me about her life and high school. Then she would bring out one of her old hockey sticks and we would play around while I told her about the stories in books and the great power they had. My mom would kiss me on the head when she got home and the girl would wave me goodbye and tell me next time we would watch something.
If this was a movie, this would be the part where it shows the broken glasses on a dark rainy road and a ribbon blowing past.
But it isn't.
She was hit by a car walking home from babysitting. The car was driven by one of her drunk classmates.
She didn't see the huge arrays of flowers and the people weeping.
She didn't see her team win the biggest game of the season and still walk off defeated.
She didn't see the look of a seven-year-old boy who realized his best friend would never play with him again. She never saw the pain carved out of his chest and the hollow emptiness that replaced it after she left.
Nico didn't either.