November 20.
The next morning, it was raining again, but not like normal. It was a thunderstorm, and the clouds were almost black.
On the news, people had said that someone had fallen asleep in the middle of the night. That, someone, was you. But you hadn't woken up like me.
The reporter said that you had been shot by your parents; that's all I knew.
That's all I had to believe. I desperately wanted it to be a lie.
I even went to our bench again; the one where you carved our names.
You weren't there. All I saw was a single clover flower right below my feet. But it was dead; it had been beaten up by the torrents of rain.
And that's how I knew you were truly gone.