2000 Los Angeles, California

It's been six years since your boyfriend Tate died.You could see the innocent children he'd killed every time you thought of them when you found yourself feeling sorry for him. You hated yourself for loving him. You didn't understand why he did it. You didn't want to understand that. But you couldn't stop the pain in your chest. It's been going on for so long that you're mired in it. 

You dreamed about him every night. You thought he was always there for you. You could smell it, see it everywhere, and every little thing reminded you of it.

So much time had passed, Tate's mother, Constance, had moved out of the killer's house and the unfortunate house had changed hands and was back on the market. 

You hated yourself for that decision, but you decided to buy this house. You've found something that might give you a ghostly glimpse of Tate around. Like you could pretend he was still alive and finally ask him why he started the shooting in Westfield. 

Finding the money for you was a challenge because all these six years you didn't have the strength to get out of bed you were completely heartbroken and honestly you didn't understand how you survived. But you bought this house anyway.

The first thing you did, of course, was go to his room. His mother said the cops killed him in this very room. In that damn room where you had your first time with him, where you listened to Nirvana together, those walls saw too much. 

You didn't understand how it all came to this. Yesterday you were 17. Just yesterday, you had an amazing boyfriend with slightly depressive and philosophical thoughts. You thought you'd be together with him forever. All teenagers probably think that they will always be with their significant other. But now you're 23, and life still feels like shit.

In less than a minute, you collapsed on the floor and burst into tears. Your sobs were so strong and broken that you choked on your tears. Suddenly you felt someone's arms around you.

"My baby, hush... don't cry please..."