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I was out of town at the time. I learned the news on the radio, on Friday, on the highway, as I was driving back home. She was a well-known author.
I still haven't really assimilated the information, but I'm sure I eventually will and lose the urge to call her like right now because I'm really, really sad. Whenever I was sad, I always called her. Like last week, when she came over and reminded me how valuable my life was.
Isa, mon amour, je ne peux pas croire que tu es partie.
Isa, mon amour, moi aussi je t'aime beaucoup, pour toujours.
My best friend didn't die for nothing. She did one last thing before leaving: she asked if she could take my desire for death with her and the people who deal with these sorts of things granted her that final request.
It's gone. I want to live.
I want to live my life toward the goal I always had within.
My best friend's name will not only live on in her books; although it is true that she will live eternally there, like a star in the sky. Her name will live on in that place I'll build; that place we both so desperately needed; that place that will be too late for us but not the girls after us, who will, like you, want to take their precious lives with them. Your precious life, Isabelle... That place will be named after you.
I'll work hard, like the girl I use to be, whom I thought I'd lost. Just give me a few days and she'll really be back.
I'll bring out that old resourcefulness and bring the right people together and make it happen.
I hadn't told you. Isa, je ne t'avais pas dit... I had gotten in touch with a old connection in one of those places I volunteered at. Remember that place? Well, we're meeting next week and I think it's going to work.
It's going to happen because of you.
Isa, Isa, je t'aime et je m'ennuie tellement de toi.
Tu vas être fière, ok? Plus personne. Plus jamais. Plus d'autres filles tourmentées par ces files d'hommes dans nos lits après nous.
I miss you so much.
Ma petite Isa, je t'aime pour toujours.