I wish I’d said I love you.
At your funeral I told everyone about our sessions at Quinn’s. Hours spent dissecting our favourite albums, rambling about politics, puzzling over our crushes. They laughed, remembering your mad theories and your strong views about Metallica and your great soft heart.
Somewhere in that river of words I wish I had told you, just once, what being your friend meant to me. I wish I could say it now. Say something at least. It’s too dark to see your face but I know it’s you.
I’m sorry. I love you. I’m so afraid.
Sarah Jackson writes gently unsettling supernatural fiction which is usually also about feelings, because sometimes ghosts and monsters are easier to face.