When the girl, I loved, died, I locked myself in her room while her parents were in Arizona.
I went through her things and found **** photos; A few where she seemed ashamed and a few where she liked her body. She had a gummy smile and in others she looked down at her ******* while having a blank expression.
I found empty alcohol bottles. Cheap bottles of wine and a bottle of red, stuffed with tissue paper.
Under her dresser I found an unopened letter she intended to give the boyfriend before me, where she admitted to being ***** as a teenager and how she hoped it wasn't too much baggage.
I threw out the photos and alcohol bottles, but not the letter.
I don't know why but I kept it. I occasionally read it, because it's her, and I love her.
I told my friend and he called me a Halomaker, because I made sure she was remembered as an angel.