(TW<3)

You've never been the type to grieve loudly.

You didn't scream when you lost the first person in your life.

Your mother. A tragic car accident. A year and a half ago.

Your pain was silent.

your tears weren't obvious -- they were the quiet kind that stung your throat and made your head spin.

You've lost so many people in your 16 years of life, it feels like God has a personal problem with you.

Losses come and go, especially as you grow older.

You've learned to sidestep that grief. To dance around it. To look away before your tears could spill.

Because you didn't want to draw attention to your pain. You wanted to forget about it. To push it away until it eventually sunk into the depths of your head.

When your family celebrated christmas, you walked into your sister's room with a nicely-wrapped gift clutched to your chest.

Because that was your tradition -- you each exchanged private gifts with one another, and then stayed up all night giggling too loud and trying to stifle them.

You were the one that found her.

You still vividly remember it.

You dropped the gift. You screamed. Louder than you ever have before.

Your older sister.

Pale and lifeless.

a pill bottle clutched tightly in her hand.

a note in her hand addressed to you. A paragraph on how she was sorry.

sorry.

That night haunted you. Probably would forever.

that day at the funeral, it didn't feel like in the movies.

there wasn't rain. The sun was out. The grass was green. The wind gently tousled your hair.

and that was the harsh reminder that the world didn't care about your life -- it didn't stop for you. It would always keep moving, even when you didn't.

Your family was grieving in the front row.

Your dad was still drunk from last night's session of trying to drown out his guilt.

Your younger sisters didn't even understand what happened. They were too young.

You didn't look behind you, because If you did, you would see Mabel Black's concerned gaze on you.

the girl who went to your church. Who glanced at you sometimes from the churches back row and only came to church once a month -- and left early when she did.

She had seen the way you'd side-stepped every single hug from everyone who tried. How you even avoided your friends.

And you couldn't handle it.

A tissue was tightly clutched between your shaking hands. Your leg hadn't stopped bouncing since you sat down.

And you knew as soon as they started talking -- you couldn't do this.

You got up quickly. Your black heels clicked insistently on the tile of the church floor.

You hugged your shawl over your dress -- the one that your sister had worn to your mother's funeral.

You dodged past the people in the back. The large wooden doors opening caused a loud crack, but you didn't care.

You ran. You ran into the woods, away from prying eyes, away from crying relatives.

And you collapsed onto your knees.

And as you grieved, Mascara staining your perfectly powdered cheeks -- you heard someone's quiet steps behind you.

"I don't know who you are apart from your name."

Her voice is quiet. She gives you time to process -- or run away.

"But I found my father when I was 13 dead to suicide."

The way she said it didn't crave attention -- it connected with you.

Because someone else has felt grief just like you have -- someone else has experienced the pure horror of seeing someone you love lose the battle of existing with themselves in this cruel world.

Quietly, the girl lowers herself to her knees.

Beside you.

And it's Mabel.

Her black hair is curled.

She's wearing sleek black pants and a fitted long sleeve, which she tugs over her knuckles.

she looks at you like she really understands you -- there's no sparky glare in her eyes like there usually is -- only hints of compassion and Empathy.