I am frozen, unable to move like a deer frozen in headlights. My legs and feet are made of lead, my head is spinning. Move…move. I scream at myself, Get to your car.

            I put down my phone and push myself to run to my car. My sweaty, hot body has been running for about 20 minutes already at a track meet and after I crossed the finish line, I told myself I wouldn’t be able to run for the next day. Yet, now, adrenaline pumps through me and I find a reason to run.

            The moment I sat in the car, my back began to stick to my leather seats, and I could feel the blood pumping in my legs. My hands were red and veiny, so as I gripped the steering wheel, I tried no to grip to tight.

            From the drive here to the hospital, it was nothing but a daze. The speeding whiz of cars driving past me, and the occasional stop at a red light or stop sign. I still hadn’t begun to process what was happening until I pulled into the Hospital parking lot. My legs, no longer pumping with blood, moved on their own to bring me into the front office where I stood in front of the receptionist.  

            “Miss?” she asked. I tried my best to smile and muster the strength to speak.

            “Sorry, uh I am here for Smith?”

She types away at her computer for a minute before handing me a tag with the room number. 102.

            I smile and walk to the hallway on my left. The walls were painted beige, the floors tiled and scrubbed clean. I read each of the gold plates on each side of the door, looking for 102. The hallway was counting backwards from 10.

8 rooms down, and 102 is on my right. The door is solid, no windows. I turn the handle and the smell of anti-bacteria fills my nose. Couches and chairs are around the room, tables with magazines and small peppermints. I notice a mini fridge in the back of the room.

            The Smiths are sitting together on the couch, hugging each other. Jack, the older brother, has a blank expression on his face. My mom is sitting on a chair, her face in her hands.

            I sit down next to my mom and stare at my hands.

            “Is she…”

            My mom doesn’t respond. She just takes a deep breath and removes her hands from her face.

            “Mom?” my voice cracks. She places her hand on mine and rubs her thumb on the back of my hand. My breath hitches, and I try to breath slowly. I look away from her as tears form in my eyes and begin to slowly fall down my face. I put my hand on my mouth. A scream roots itself into the back of my throat, but never comes out. It just sits there.

            I hear the squeak of the door opening, but I don’t move my gaze from the floor.

            “Is someone in here named Ally?” I turn my head, the doctor is holding a piece of paper, and then some blue fabric. A familiar blue fabric.

            I raise my hand slowly. The doctor gives me a sympathetic look before handing me the paper, and the blue thing.

            “This letter was in her pocket, with instructions that she wanted you to have it.”

I move the paper and unfold the fabric. It’s her sweatshirt. The sweatshirt.

The sweatshirt she wore to the park, where she spilt a dribble of her vanilla ice-cream directly onto the pocket. It’s the sweatshirt she wore to my first every track meet, where after I crossed the finish line, she hugged me tight. The one she wore when we went to the movies in the pouring rain and someone drove past us splashing mud all over. The very sweatshirt she wore during our last volleyball game together, where she rammed into her crush with a Coca-Cola.

The very sweatshirt I’m holding right now as tears flow down my face and my mother’s hand rubs my back. The very sweatshirt she had wrapped around her waist when she got into the accident. The sweatshirt that I was just handed by the doctor.

I fold the sweatshirt back up and pick up the piece of paper. It’s old, wrinkled, yet her handwriting is neatly written.

Ally,

In case of a death, in case of an accident. I want this sweatshirt to go to you. This very blue sweatshirt holds too many memories from both me and you for it to just go to my parents and then to someone else. Someone who doesn’t know its story. I love my parents, but I know how they grieve. They will try at all cost to remove me from the situation. Forget me until it doesn’t hurt to talk about anymore.

I know how you grieve. You will hold on to everything that contains me as much as possible. So, I’m asking you this, hold on to my sweatshirt. Don’t let go of it. Carry it to your children, tell them my story. But never let go of it. Hold on to it, and the memories sewn into its fabric. I love you Ally. Never forget me. Carry my memories.

Sincerely, Katlynn 11/02/18

Tears are streaming down my face at this point. My one friend, the one person who I would have loved to spend the rest of my life with is gone. I just want one more conversation with her…just one. I want to hug her after finishing a race. I want to watch one more movie together. Watch one more volleyball game. I wanted to graduate with her. Now, I want to curl up in a ball and cry. Cry till my head hurts and my stomach hurls.

But I can’t let her down. I will keep her memory alive. I will win every track meet in her honor. Drink coke at every volleyball game for our school. Graduate in her honor. I will watch her favorite movies every night, eat popcorn and drink blue slushies. I will sit at the park and eat vanilla ice-cream. I can’t promise I won’t cry. But I can promise I won’t cry too much.

It used to be Katlynn and Ally. The girl in the blue sweatshirt with the girl with crazy colored hair.

Now, forever, it’ll just be the girl with crazy hair who excels in every test, who watches Disney movies every night, who drinks blue slushies every Thursday, who runs so fast her legs give out, who goes to every volleyball game for her school, a coke in hand…who wears that sweatshirt around her waist every day.