Stuggling with something that is not yours to struggle with is difficult. The shortness of breath whenever I try to understand is uncalled for. The tightness in my stomach when I try to write about you is not mine, unexplainable. You did not try to **** me. You did not confide in me. You probably didn’t even think about me. But I think about you. I think about you in a jail cell. I think about you, thinking about what happened. I think things that make me bend over backwards, that make me swallow my tongue, that make me shake. To be truthful, I wonder more than I think. I wonder if you feel alone, I wonder if you even remember. I wonder if defending you is even worth it, because last thing I heard from the internet is that detachment disorder means you never cared about any of us. That it could’ve been me. I could’ve been killed. That you probably didn’t even think twice about it. I wonder if you’ll want me to write to you. I wonder if you’ll be upset that i’m going to your trial. I wonder why. Such a stupid question to answer an already unjustified feeling. Why. People loved you, people wanted to be around you, people wanted you to be happy. Why. You always used to talk to me, you listened you were sympathetic, you cared. Why. Thats what they do Emma, Thats why they’re sick because they know how to manipulate good people. Why. You aren’t bad, you aren’t crazy, you’re hurt,  and you’re alone. Why. I have dreams about you, that you’ve come back, that there was a mistake. Why do I miss you, it probably could’ve been me.