I wake in the morning and roll from bed, heading straight to the shower in hopes of getting rid of this hangover.

I don’t ever drink much. I only had three of whatever it was Katie made last night, but they were strong. I have a headache the size of a Buick.

I take extra-long in the shower. When I step out, the small space is filled with steam as the moisture beads up on the mirror and white tiled walls. I walk back into my bedroom and dress in a pair of black leggings and a baggy sweatshirt. I pull my wet hair up into a bun on the top of my head, and go in search of food. I’m not going to do anything today but clean up my apartment. No point in trying to be presentable.

I walk into the living room and see the coffee table still home to our leftover junk food fiesta. Crumbs are scattered across the white carpet, and the white and cream colored couch is ruffled and covered in blankets. I roll my eyes and pass it by, opting to get some sustenance before tackling that project.

I make myself a bowl of cereal, and take a seat on the couch as I’m turning on the TV. I flip through the channels aimlessly until something catches my eye. My finger stops pushing buttons as I hear what the news announcer is saying.

“Flight 108 departed from Los Angeles at five A.M. this morning heading for its Miami destination. Unfortunately, something went terribly wrong.” It flashes to a fiery plane crash.

The hand holding the spoonful of cereal freezes on its way to my mouth as I watch the story unfold.

The announcer continues to explain what happened to cause the crash, but my ears suddenly stop working. I can’t hear a word. I can only see the images flashing across the screen.

There is nothing left of the plane. Its torn apart metal lies in heaps across the scorched earth. There are rescue teams rushing to put the fire out while the words, “No found survivors” run across the bottom of the screen.

All I see is fire and smoke. The earth that was once flat and green is now a massive divot that holds the burning plane. People are rushing to the scene to assess the situation while news teams surround the nearby area. The entire place is covered in flashing red and blue lights.

My ears ring and my chest burns from lack of oxygen as I sit watching this horrific event, still unable to hear a word they are saying. And I don’t really care because my best friend was on that flight.

Without thinking, I hurriedly set the bowl on the coffee table and rush to my room to get my phone. I look on the bedside table where I normally put it, but it’s not there. Frustrated, I toss the blankets off my bed in an attempt to locate it.

“Please God! Please don’t let her be on that plane!” I pray out loud.

When I come up empty handed, I run back into the living room and throw everything off the coffee table. Everything spills and seeps into the white carpet.

It isn’t here either. I turn and throw blankets and couch cushions onto the floor. I don’t care about the mess. All I care about is whether Katie was on that plane.

With everything thrown from the couch, I finally find it. It must have fallen between the cushions last night. I grab it and frantically swipe the screen to see twenty missed calls.

I ignore them all and dial her number.

“Hi, it’s Katie. If I don’t answer I’m probably lounging at the beach or too busy becoming famous to talk to you. Leave a message and I’ll call you back. Maybe.” She giggles over the recording.

I fall to my knees, clutching my phone in my hands. My eyes land on the fiery scene that still plays on the TV, not quite believing what I’m seeing. But it’s like my entire world has been shattered. All I can hear is my heart pounding wildly while I desperately try to take in enough oxygen.

* * *

Hours later, I’m lying on the floor, tears still streaming down my face. The crash is still playing, and I can do nothing but watch it.

Over, and over, and over.

It’s like I feel the need to punish myself because it was her who’d been stolen from this world and not me.

It should have been me.

She makes the world a better place. She’s kind and loving. She’s outgoing and would do anything within her power to help anyone in need.

I do nothing but stay shut up in my apartment, avoiding almost everything.

I’m still clutching my phone to my chest, unable to move. It’s rung several times now, but I haven’t even attempted to answer it. I can’t. I’m in shock. My best friend was on that plane. She’s gone. I won’t see her at the end of the summer. I won’t see her ever again.

The pain hits me like a powerful wave, crippling me. It’s like I’m floating in the middle of the ocean and the waves are unrelenting, beating me up and pulling me under until I almost pass out. It only releases me just to do it all over again. My heart pounds in my chest erratically. My breathing is shallow, all but stopping. My headache has only gotten worse with the crying, and my lungs burn for much needed oxygen. Oxygen I can’t seem to breathe in because my lungs feel deflated. It’s like everything around me is in slow motion as I’m wracked with grief.

My whole body is numb with pain. It’s all I can feel.

Loss.

Loneliness.

Pain.

Why did this happen? She should be having the time of her life right now. She should be lounging on a beach, being handed mixed drinks by sexy waiters. She should be sending me Snapchats of the fantastic view. She should be texting me to play screw, marry, kill, with every guy that passes her. But instead, she’s gone. Taken out in a fucking plane crash.

She would have to go out dramatically. That thought makes me giggle just a little. She was always dramatic. A sudden fit of hysterical laughter washes over me and it makes it even harder to catch my breath.

I barely hear the knock on my door over my laughter before my mother rushes to my side. I see her above me and I see her lips moving, but can’t hear what she’s saying. All I hear is the ringing in my ears while the blood rushes through them.

She drops to her knees and pulls me against her chest. Suddenly, the laughing stops as everything speeds back up.

“She’s in shock. Help me get her to bed,” she tells someone.

The fit of laughter has now turned to full on tears. They quickly overfill my swollen, puffy eyes and run down my hot cheeks.

My dad picks me up and places me softly on my bed. My mom pulls the blankets off the floor and covers my shaking body. I don’t know why I’m shaking. Am I cold? I don’t know, I can’t feel anything but heartbreak.

Once again, I see my mom move above me, but my eyes are flooded, causing everything to look blurry.

I curl into a ball and close my eyes that sting with the threat of more tears. She lays down next to me and curls herself around me, rubbing my back and brushing away the hair that is stuck to my wet cheeks.

Finally, feeling a bit of comfort, I fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.

* * *

I wake in the morning and look around my room. Something is different but nothing has moved. There’s this pressure in my chest that feels like it’s going to crush me, like my heart is in a vice that just keeps getting tighter.

With a sharp pain in my chest and a dull ache in my stomach, I force myself from bed. I haven’t had anything to drink in over twenty-four hours, yet somehow, I need to use the bathroom.

After washing my hands, I debate on getting in the shower, but decide against it. Instead, I head towards the kitchen for a glass of water.

As I’m walking down the hallway I hear my mom and dad talking from inside the kitchen. I pause to listen to what they are saying.

“Should I call a doctor? She slept like a rock all night long, but every time I would wake to check on her, she was still crying. I didn’t even know you could cry in your sleep,” my mother says, worry evident in her normally soothing voice.

“She’ll be fine. She lost her best friend. She’s going to hurt. She just needs time to adjust,” my dad replies.

Hearing his words makes my heart ache. I take a deep breath and push myself forward. I don’t acknowledge them as I walk straight to the sink. I take a glass from the cabinet and fill it to the brim with water, all the while, feeling their eyes on me.

I chug the glass like I can’t get it in fast enough. When I turn around, breathless, they are both watching me, frozen like statues.

“How are you feeling, Jovi?” my mom asks.

I shrug and fill the glass again. This time, instead of devouring it all at the sink, I take it to the table and sit down. “My head hurts.” No doubt from all the crying from the day before.

“I’ll get you some Tylenol,” Dad says as he pushes away from the table.

My mom sits down beside me, placing her hand over mine and rubbing slightly. “I know you don’t want to hear this right now, but Katie’s body has been recovered and—”

“No! I don’t want to hear it.” I jerk my hand away and lean back in my seat, crossing my arms over my chest like a spoiled child that’s in trouble.

My mom flinches from my harsh tone. She places her hand over her heart and closes her brown eyes like the stressful situation is just too much for her to handle. How does she think I feel?

“Here you go, sweetheart.” Dad hands me the pills and I wash them down with a long drink.

“I’m sorry for yelling, Mom.” I stand with my glass of water. “It really means a lot to me that both of you are here.” I turn away before they can reply, and walk to the couch. I sit down and look around the room.

The mess I made looking for my phone has been cleaned up. Even the spilt cereal that I shoved off the table has been scrubbed from the carpet. The glass coffee table is completely clean, all but that damn notebook.

“I’m serious, Jo. While I’m gone, I want you to live. Live like I’m here with you. No, live like I am dead and you’re living for the both of us. You know how much I expect from life so you better fulfill each and every one of these things.”

I lean forward and pick up the list. I start flipping through the pages. There are three whole pages of things to do. How could she even write this quickly?

I don’t bother reading over them. Leave it to her to guilt me into this list. If I didn’t know better, I’d think this was her plan all along: force me to be uncomfortable, to come out of my shell, force me to live.

Tears sting my eyes again.

I have to live while she’s gone.

I have to live for the both of us now.

And without a doubt, I have to do this damn list.

* * *

It’s been three days since Katie’s plane crash, and I haven’t left my apartment since. I’m not living. I’m doing the opposite. I have watched Dirty Dancing continuously, eaten nothing but dirt cake, and read the list over and over.

I only leave my bed to use the bathroom. It’s like all the energy has been sucked from my body. I can’t force myself to live on without her. There is a constant pain in my chest that makes me wish I could quit breathing, but because life is the bitch it is, it allows me to live in constant pain.

My parents have gone home, but they come by to check on me every day because they know I won’t answer my phone.

I can’t.

I don’t want to talk to the many people that have been calling to tell me how sorry they are. I can’t deal with my reality right now. So in an attempt to ignore it all, I pull down the shoebox in my closet that is filled with pictures and trinkets of our favorite memories.

I set the box on my bed and look at the lid. We made this box when we were in eighth grade. The pink construction paper glued to the top reads “Jovi and Kate’s B.F.F. Memory Box,” written with silver glitter paint. It’s old and tears fraying the edges makes it look worn.

I take a deep breath and pull off the lid. I pick up the stack of pictures resting on the top. I look at the first picture of us. It’s from last summer when we took a cruise. We’re looking directly into the camera, wearing big smiles that highlight our sunburnt cheeks. I flip to the next one to see a picture of Katie from the same trip. But in this one, she’s leaning over the side of the ship, puking into the ocean from being seasick.

I giggle and set the pictures aside. I pick up a piece of folded up paper and open it up. It’s a note from grade school. It reads,

I laugh to myself and fold the page back up. I continue digging through the box and find random postcards from the trips we have taken together over the years. I find matchbooks with guys’ numbers written on them, guys I probably promised her I’d call and never did. There are sea shells from our trips to the Key’s and other pictures of us throughout our years together, but it’s the unfamiliar hot pink envelope in the bottom of the box that steals my attention.

I pick up the envelope and open it to find cash and a note.

My eyes fill with tears that stream down my cheeks, landing on the letter.

When could she have put this in here? Did she sneak into my room when we had our last night together? I clutch the money to my chest, unsure of what to do.

I can’t believe she did this.

My eyes fall to the list she made that’s setting on my bedside table, the one I’ve read over a hundred times now. I look over her cursive handwriting. “Take a trip— for fun not work.”

I look at the money and note in my hands.

I know what I have to do. I have to take Katie’s trip.

I have to cross off everything on this list.

I have to live for us.

* * *

The week passes by too quickly for my liking. Before I know it, it’s Katie’s funeral. I pull on a black dress and heels and check myself over in the mirror. I pull my hair off my neck and into a sleek bun. I look at the makeup that lines my vanity, makeup that Katie probably bought for me.

“Learn to apply makeup,” I say, remembering her words.

I turn on my phone and open the Youtube app to look for makeup tutorial videos. I laugh at myself. This is crazy. How is a Youtube video going to teach me to do my makeup?

In an attempt to try, I watch the video and repeat the steps until my face is painted. I look at myself in the mirror.

My usually plain face is now covered in blush, eyeshadow, eyeliner, and lipstick. It doesn’t look like I had a seizure doing it either. It’s not the best, but I consider it a win!

I reach into my bedside table, pulling out the list, and write, “Learn to apply makeup”. Then I check it off.

“One down, Katie.”

* * *

I’m numb through the entire funeral. I have to be. I can’t let myself feel all the emotions that are threatening to crash down on me right now because they would cripple me. My chest feels tight, my heart literally hurts, and my lungs burn, needing to take in more oxygen, but I can’t give them anything more than what I’m already giving them.

Holding my breath is the only thing that is keeping me from bursting into tears. My body feels dragged down and tired, even though I’ve slept more this past week than any other. I have to force every step I take.

I have to force everything.

I sit quietly in an uncomfortable chair and stare at the forest-green carpet. I can’t look around at her friends and family falling apart. Just thinking about having to talk to someone about the good times Katie and I shared brings tears to my eyes. I don’t want to talk about her like she’s gone. Because to me, she isn’t gone. She lives on with me every day.

As everyone files out, I accidentally look up at the big framed picture of her. Her blonde hair is hanging down around her face in loose waves, her blue eyes are bright and happy, and she looks completely carefree, the way she always did. A sob makes its way up my throat as my eyes flood with tears.

My dad puts his arm around my shoulders and leads me out of the door and to the car. I slide into the backseat and rest my forehead against the window, watching everyone in their black clothes cling to one another on the sidewalk. Tears flow from their red, bloodshot eyes down their flushed cheeks. I see her mom fall to her knees in a grieving fit while her dad tries to pull her back up to her feet.

My heart cracks just a little more.