I leave early for my lunch break from Ben’s Coffee House and head to the train station. I promise that I will not return. I will be gone from this life, and everyone will be better off without me. At least that is what I tell myself to justify dying.
We search for justification our entire lives, and we often never find it. My friends and family will probably justify my death by saying it was a fluke. By telling themselves it was not their fault. They will say it was done on impulse; which is only partially true.
We all lie to ourselves and the ones we love in an attempt to shelter each other from pain. Although the truth is hard, it is better than a life stock full of lies.
If each lie spoken to me was a scar, I would be covered in these deep scars.

Once I am gone, my friends and family will have a funeral; they will cry, but maybe not. Michelle will fly over from London, and she will be the only one who will genuinely miss me. Well, Sonia too. She and Michelle will cry together and put roses on my grave.
I want my whole body to be buried, because I wish to leave as a whole person, not as ashes.
Paul and Don will both be at the funeral. The two most important men in my life will merely exchange hellos and go to a pub afterwards for drinks, either separately or together.
Thinking about the ones I love makes me regret my death a little, but it is not enough to stop me. Nothing is, at this point. Except Michelle.

As I stand on the brink of everything and nothing, I realize I cannot. I cannot leave now, when I have been through so much. All the problems I have been dealing with rise to the surface. They pierce through my heavy armor, and threaten to break me.
But how can I break anymore when my whole body is fractured, covered in bruises and scars from all the lies that have shaped my tainted reality?
My parents’ divorce hit me hard, and the lie that was their perfect marriage still haunts me. My dad always told me that he loved my mother, no matter how much they fought. And I believed him. My mom said the same thing. By then, I had learned not to trust her, or anyone else.
My best friend Sonia told me that she only wanted me to be happy. Yet she always seemed happier when I was depressed. It made sense though. If I was unhappy, then she had more opportunities to be happy. When I was unhappy, she could take advantage of this. She delighted in my tears and heartache.
It was like Sonia could suck the happiness out of me and use it to her own benefit. There are two types of people in this world: the ones who find happiness within themselves, and the ones who achieve happiness by putting others down. I am in the first category; and Sonia is in the latter, which is unfortunate.
My unhappiness meant happiness for others; if I could not help myself, I might as well help others.
I give away so much of myself to all those I know. I carry everyone else’s worries on my shoulders, along with my own, which is an extremely heavy burden.
Everyone always says that I should stop carrying the world on my shoulders. But that raises a question that haunts me: if not me, who would?

After leaving Ben’s, I near the train station. As I get closer, I realize I cannot end my precious life. Yet I still walk onto the tracks. My feet talk louder than my heart and common sense. I soon find myself kneeling on the rough stones. They lay lifeless, like I soon will be.
Then I hear my phone ring. I take it out from my ripped jeans pocket, and I look down to see Michelle’s smiling face, calling from her home in London. I run off the tracks at the last second, and my life is saved by my beautiful cousin Michelle. The train whizzes past me, flicking my chestnut-colored curls far behind me.
Calls in the daytime are as important as brutally honest calls in the night.
As soon as I pick up, Michelle launches in: “hey, Miranda! How are you? I heard you aren’t taking the divorce too well, which is understandable…” she trails off, not sure how to mend my aching soul.
Before I can answer, I break into tears.
“Oh honey, I’m here. I can visit very soon!! Looking at flights now!”
“Yes, please do,” I respond with hasty, scattered breaths.
My face is battered and bruised, from the harsh wind and biting cold: the sleet hit me hard, and I did not shield my face from the onslaught of snow.
My legs are torn up, by the grey stones of the train tracks, and by the thoughts that have plagued me my whole life. I was kneeling, waiting for the train to come. The stones bit at me; they were so barren and lifeless.
“I was about to end my life, Michelle. I was on the tracks, and then you called. That saved me. You brought me back, Michelle. I owe everything to you. I always have...” I squeak out, as tears pour down my face.
I used to think I could control my own tears, my own emotions. But this face that knows tears better than laughter has spiraled out of my control.
Michelle starts crying, before choking out, “honey, are you serious? You were going to end it?! I knew something was wrong. Your mom called to tell me about the divorce, and I could not stop thinking about you. They lied to you so much. They hid all their secrets, like you always hated. Oh honey, you are so loved. You are so much more than all of this!”
“Thank you, I should go back to Ben’s though. My coworkers will be wondering where I went. I have definitely overdone my lunch break.” Saying this makes me laugh a little, and a smile comes to my face, foreign to my fading features. I was never what people would call beautiful, but I was not ugly either. I was just average. Pretty, yet not outstanding in any way.
“Okay, are you sure? You can just go back to your dorm and watch some bad reality TV to feel better? Just say you’re sick,” Michelle pleads.
“No, I’m okay. I just need normalcy. And my job gives me that,” I reply.
“Will you be okay though?” Michelle asks worriedly. She is very protective of me, almost to a fault.
“Yes, Michelle. You can go now.”
“Not until you hang up first!” she says, putting up a challenge, like always.
This was often a contest between us, seeing who would give in and hang up first. Once we had stayed up talking all through the night, giving up sleep to win the battle. Usually I won, because of the time change in London. This time though, I hang up as Ben’s came into sight.

I shake my head as I walk into Ben’s Coffee House. How could I have come so close? How did I let my life get so out of control? I remember when I was the perfect child, everything any parent could ever wish for.
I was incredibly insecure in high school, and no one and nothing could raise my self esteem.
My parents thought that just because their doors were closed, I could not hear their suffering. Every night they would argue in hushed tones. And sometimes, my mom would sleep out on the couch. She would always get up just before me, so that she could wash away her tears.
My mother Mara masks her heartache behind heavy makeup and fake smiles.
Everything about her is fake, and she only seems real to me when she is crying. Mara has blonde curly hair, which she straightens, another illusion of her appearance. She acts just fine all the time, yet she is an extremely sad person on the inside.
My depression stems from Mara and her failing relationship with my jerk of a father Brad.
Brad is a whole different story. He is an alcoholic, which makes him abusive towards my mother and me. Brad, I never call him ‘dad,’ is a manipulative bastard, who I have never forgiven for the physical and emotional pain he had caused me growing up under his roof. Because of him, I have never been the same. I am broken because I am a product of a fractured household.
As I come back to earth, I shake the thoughts of Mara and Brad out of my head. They have always haunted me and continue to stain my conscience. I promise myself that I will never get this low again.
Back at the coffee shop, my coworkers look at me funny, becoming used to my ever-increasing tardiness. We are all family here, so they know I have been somewhere far by the look on my face, and the heaviness of my breath. When they ask where I have been, I just say I lost ‘track’ of time while on my lunch break.
They do not need to know I went all the way to the train station. They are worried enough about me. Especially my good friend Denise. She can sense when I am off, which has been very frequent lately.
Denise is my roommate at Tufts, so she knows all about my weird habits and frequent late night freak-outs. Sometimes I leave at nine and wander back at midnight, too hungover to remember where I was for the last few hours. I was probably drowning my sorrows in bottles of beer, trying to find solace in the bottom of empty cans. I inherited my drinking problem from Brad.
Although I love how much Denise cares, sometimes I wish she would leave me alone. I am better off without others who worry about me too much and too often.
I resume work, making lattes and heating scones, as if nothing has changed, everyone taking my existence for granted, as usual.
No one will ever realize it is a miracle that I am still standing today.

When I think of what brought me to this point in my life, I think of three people, not things. Three people who each told me I was beautiful, brave, and fearless.
This is the story of these people, and how they each came to tell me the same things. How they each led me to believe I should lead a different life. Not a better one, just a different one.
To this day, I wonder what my life would have been like if not for these three people. They are each people you only come across once in a lifetime.
My once in a lifetime people.

The first one: Michelle, my cousin. She lives so far away (in London), yet it is amazing how love can cross oceans.
Michelle helps me through my relationships, and in some ways, she understands me better than anyone else ever has. She knows about my depression, my panic attacks, and my suicidal tendencies.
The second person: Don, my ex boyfriend, is the funny one who gained too much weight in his college years. He somehow makes me feel happy, sad, and exhilarated all at the same time. I do not know how one person can cause so many emotions all at once, but he can. We have fun together, but things get rocky towards the end of our relationship.
The third one: Paul, the good guy. The close friend I always liked but was too scared to ask out. He liked me too, but we found out too late. We had already committed ourselves to people we did not love but felt obligated to anyway. Though each adored by other people, we never allowed ourselves to love each other.
I think that is a human’s biggest mistake in life: not allowing ourselves to fall in love with the people we are drawn to. As the wise author Stephen Chbosky once wrote, “we accept the love we think we deserve” (24).

This is the story of how four lives intersected and intertwined, twisting fates and altering destinies.
I moved to Boston when I was 18 to go to Tufts University, my dream school. I still remember the 7-hour flight east from my home for all my life - Tucson, Arizona, to Boston, Massachusetts - my new home.
Every time I fly, I think of the in between place, the space between the plane and the ground below. There are thousands of feet between the plane and the space below, just like the space that spans between the living and the dead. We are closer to death than most humans realize.
That was the first time I really thought about death and what it meant. My aunt had died when I was 9 years old, but I was so young I just thought she had gone to sleep and never woken up. I hate when people say “see you in the morning,” because what if they will not? Their last words to me would be a lie.
I hate lies. I have been lied to all my life. Brad has lied to me. Mara. Sonia. Don. They all think I am too scared to hear the truth, but they are the ones who are too scared to tell it.
Anyway, back to my college story. I applied to 20 schools because I did not believe I would get in anywhere. I have never believed in myself. I was one of those B+/A- students who could easily fade into the background of high school. I had barely any friends at San Miguel High School on the South Side of Tucson, but I got by.
It was college where I really flourished.
At Tufts, I took classes that ranged from astrology to acting, and I loved almost every one of them. I met many people, some of whom I hated, but others whom I loved.
My college years were fun yet fleeting. I got into a fair amount of trouble, but nothing too serious. I went on academic probation sophomore year, meaning that I would face expulsion if I did not raise my grades. That kicked me into gear. I worked hard and got two As, three Bs, and one C.
I graduated from Tufts with a 3.17 GPA, which was lower than my 3.5 high school GPA, but not too bad. I had learned more than academics — I had learned about myself and what I wanted to do. I became a screenwriter, after working at a few publishing companies.
I moved in with my college boyfriend Don when I was 22, right after my 5 years of college. He was one year my junior but had graduated in 4 years so was ready for me as soon as I finished.
We were cute in the beginning, but the original puppy love gradually faded into a sort of amiability where he was the dominant one in the relationship and made me feel weak. He would say things to me that diminished my self-worth, like “you are so naive,” “quit being so dumb,” or “just think for once.” As if I did not think.
Despite these remarks, his love for me was greater than my love for him and that was that.

It was a freezing Boston afternoon in mid February, and I refused to go outside, preferring to stay bundled inside my nest of blankets. Actually, it was the day after Valentine’s Day. It was the beginning of our third year living together and fifth year dating. Don and I had gone to a romantic dinner the night before, then watched a romantic comedy at our apartment. It was nice and made us forget about our problems, if only for a night.
Don and I slept together, closer than we had slept in years. I wish it was always like this with Don: easy and loving, not complicated and confusing. Our relationship is turbulent at times, and sometimes I wish more than anything to be buried in his arms without a worry in the world. Other times I just wanted to leave him. I never knew exactly how I felt about Don, just that we both needed each other at this time in our lives. For security, for safety, and for love. They say not to regret anything that once made  you happy. That is how I view our relationship now.
Running was how I dealt with it all: my depression and relationship problems. I had been training for a marathon, but a serendipitously timed ankle sprain was going to prevent me from running the tragic Boston Marathon. Funny how injuries sometimes save as well as hurt.
It was two years after I had graduated Tufts. I nearly failed a lot of classes sophomore year, but that’s because I was spending more time partying than studying. Which was a huge mistake. But I bounced back from my failure, as I always had.
I was living with my boyfriend Don and as I said, it was the day after a very romantic Valentine’s Day. Don wanted me to get out of the house and walk to the pharmacy with him. But I did not want to. He could be as annoying as my little brother sometimes. He nagged me until I could not say no. I guess this showed that he was smart, because he knew I was a pushover.
It was scary how well Don knew me and how I could never get away with an “I’m fine” in front of him. It gave me goosebumps how he always knew that there was something wrong.
Don would wrap me in his arms, look me in the eyes, tell me I was beautiful, and then quietly ask me what was wrong.
Don’s silky voice made me tell him the truth, and the comfort of his arms made up for his occasional violence and short temper. He would lose it sometimes and throw couch cushions  at me. They would never hurt, but his words did.
He worshipped me more than I loved him. It felt good to be adored, so I never put up a fight or complained. I cared for him, but not in the same way.
A few arguments later, the stubborn Don got me out of our cozy apartment. The brisk wind attacked me all too soon. I had only worn one jacket, the one with the fur hood. It kept me warm enough, but not toasty. Of course Don had intelligently brought his winter parka.
Don always knew exactly what to wear to make himself comfortable, though he would never tell others what to wear or what to do.
Don and I were walking through Boston Garden, walking over a blanket of glistening, white snow, when my phone started chirping. With numb fingers, I pull out my phone and see it is Michelle, calling from London.
I tell Don that I have to take it, and he responds ‘fine.’ He starts walking ahead because, of course, he would not think of waiting for me. I pick up the phone and Michelle starts talking fast, unlike her usual methodical manner.
“Listen, you need to break up with Don right now. You need to,” she speaks frantically. I do not think she realizes he is just a few steps ahead of me at that moment.
“Okay, but why? I know we have our problems, but I thought you said to stick it out… He pays our rent anyway, I don’t know if I can afford an apartment alone…” I respond slowly, trying to wrap my head around why I have to break up with him this very second.
“Just do it, okay? He cheated on you with this girl named Amy. She’s a slut! It was all over Facebook and Snapchat. I mean who is dumb enough to post pictures of themselves cheating?! Anyway, you need to call Paul, he misses you. Like a lot. He keeps calling me asking how you are. I don’t know how he still has my number, I gave it to him years ago!?! But just trust me on this, okay? Can you think of a time when I’ve been wrong?? At least about boyfriends, alright!” Michelle speaks loudly into the phone.
“But really? Why would Don do that? I know he’s dumb, but I didn’t think he was that dumb. Wow. Never should have trusted that jerk. Okay, I’ll do it when we get home in like an hour,” I respond, growing ever angrier.
“Okay good, just promise me you’ll do it, okay? Call me as soon as you do! Remember you are brave, beautiful, and fearless! You deserve better than Don! Love you, bye, talk later!”
She hangs up before I can say another word. As Don and I walk back through the door of our apartment with my depression medication and his cough drops in hand, I end it.
After five years of dating and three years of living together in his apartment, it ends all at once, without any warning at all. I just say things are not working and I am not happy. This is not a lie, but it also is not the truth. It is merely a form of deceit. He does not deserve the truth.
So many people have lied to me that I find lying easy. I do not mention the cheating; I do not want things getting messier than they already are.
In response, Don just sits there silently, dumbfounded. I am not used to the silent Don. He always has so much, too much, to say.
“Okay, well if you’re not happy, what’s the point? Just go now, before you change your mind. You can pack and give me the last rent payment. Then we can say goodbye, just as friends.”
I nod. I proceed to pack up my few belongings and give him whatever money I have left: $1770, $210 short of our $1980 monthly rent. Although the price of living in a single bedroom is expensive in Boston: it is better than the $2800 monthly rent of single bedroom apartments in downtown New York.
“Hey, it’s okay, Miranda, just go. It’s better this way. Can I at least kiss you once more?” he pleads. Although there is so much wrong with him, I love that he still wants me. Long after I leave, I know that he will still pine over me, and that is what I love most about him: his unwavering care for those he loves.
Don loves me more than he loves anyone else, or so he tells me. All through our relationship, this love that I could not reciprocate — it always made me feel guilty.
“How about a hug?” I reply, longing for one last taste of his comfort. I have know his bushy hair and adorable smile I have grown to love. He smells like home to me, and he always smells like what he just ate, which actually appealed to me. I will miss his hugs, his passionate kisses, and his perfect cuddling.
And then we hug for the longest five minutes of my life. This hug is a sufficient thank you for the wonderful yet difficult few years he has given me. I soak up his need, but eventually pull away. If I do not pull away, I know that I will want to stay in his arms forever.
Don has a certain magnetism about him that always makes me want to be near him. To this day, I am always wondering where he is and what he is doing.
Eventually, I get up off of the couch we have been hugging on and walk out of the door, exiting his life forever. I am just an actress in the game of Don’s life, and, no doubt, another will soon replace me. Curtain call has merely called me away from him, yet someone will soon make a dazzling entrance.
However, as I leave, he yells into the brisk Boston air, “You are beautiful, brave, and fearless and deserve happiness, Miranda. Someone will be very lucky to have you!”
Those are the last words I hear from him, and the most important.

Paul, the last of the three people, is the most important. I have loved him since my freshmen year of college.
We both went to Tufts - he studied English while I studied drama. We met in a screenwriting class that we had both taken on a complete whim. It turned out to be one of the best choices of my life. I not only met him, but I also discovered my passion for screenwriting.
It is ironic how the decisions you make on impulse are often the ones that hold the most power to change the course of your life.
Paul is definitely not your typical depiction of handsome. But, I love him. His personality makes up for what he lacks in appearance. He always treats me like I am the only girl he has ever adored, and I love him for that. We started out as just friends, as many romances do.
Then one night, during Ryan Gosling and Emma Stone’s hook up in “Crazy Stupid Love,” as Stone and Gosling lean in towards each other, so do we. It is a magical kiss that makes up for every other awkward kiss I have experienced before, including my first one back in second grade. This one feels like it means something: something important.
And I know this sounds cliché, but I swear I see stars while my eyes are closed. After we draw apart, we just look into each other’s eyes, mesmerized by each other’s beauty. He runs his fingers through my hair, which ends at my chest. He is so gentle and caring, and I love how he treats my body like a temple.
A month later, Paul asks me to the “Spring Fling” dance, and I say yes in a heart beat. We dance the night away and escape for a few stolen kisses when we think no one was watching. All my friends think we will be together forever, but it is not meant to be.
Romances like this are always too good to be true. Because then I meet Don and Paul meets Diana, and we are both swept away by the false love of people who adore and idolize us.
After Paul and I are separated by false lovers, we do not speak to each other for several long years.

After breaking up with Don, it takes me a little while to get back on my feet. In the next town over, I get hired at the film studio to continue screenwriting, which had taken half a day to walk to. I honestly do not remember how I made it all the way to Worcester from Boston. Anyway, after working there for a few days, I become really close with a nice girl who is one of their voice actresses.
She say she is looking for a new roommate, and I jump at the opportunity. Her name is Alexa, and she has long straight hair that makes me jealous. My corkscrew curls have always been a nuisance.
A few weeks after breaking up with Don, I call Paul, per Michelle’s request. We catch up for what seems like hours. Although it is the first time we have spoken in years, it feels like not a single day has passed since that magical “Spring Fling” dance. He broke up with Diana a few months earlier, and, just like me, he is ready for someone new.
Paul is living in Manhattan now, and on impulse, I scrape up my few savings and take a road trip down to see him. It takes about three hours. I say goodbye to Alexa, telling her it may be awhile until I return to our flat in Worcester.
Paul’s eyes still sparkle when he talks, and he still carries Grateful Dead guitar picks in his wallet. We hug for what seems like years, and then he pecks me on the cheek.
“You missed,” I say, looking up at him.
“What?” he asks innocently, smirking.
“Here, let me show you,” and I pull him to me, kissing him with more passion than I have ever kissed anyone before. He holds me close, and we stay in this position for half an eternity. The hug eerily reminds me of the hug I shared with Don earlier, but this one is the beginning of everything, not the end.
Then Paul leads me back to his apartment, where we talk until the lights outside fade into oblivion.

Paul’s apartment is kitschy and quaint, just like him. There are Christmas lights everywhere because he likes how they twinkle at night. Paul is very sensitive because he notices all the little, important things.
I tell Paul I love what he has done with the place, and he thanks me with a kiss on the forehead, just the way he used to, in the golden years of our past. I still remember when we read The Great Gatsby one night in my college dorm room, when neither of us could fall asleep.
Paul still makes me feel amazing, and he is one of those rare people; a diamond in the rough. They are hard to find yet impossible to forget. I appreciate Paul even more now, because he wanted me back in his life, when he could have turned away from me.
As I enter his life again, it feels as if no time has passed for us, even though so much has changed. He works at a publishing company, while I have meandered from one failed job to another.
Now I am unemployed, because I quit my job when I came to Manhattan. We finally admit to each other that we have been in love ever since that first kiss several years ago. That night was magical, allowing us to forget all worries.
Paul and I sleep in each other’s arms, and I have never felt safer in my whole life. The next morning he asks me to move in as his girlfriend. I say yes without hesitation, and I call Michelle to tell her. She is overjoyed for Paul and me, glad we are finally reunited. It has been too long, and I am glad to be with my soulmate again.
Don and I are both free of false loves, and now have the freedom to be ourselves with each other — wholeheartedly.

Spring and summer pass, and I find a job and make friends. I love Paul more than I have loved anyone else outside of my family. We can talk about anything and everything; we never grow tired of each other’s company. We go to the beach almost every Saturday, and those are my favorite times with him.
Paul and I go to New York city to shop and watch Broadway shows. I am the biggest theater nerd he knows. I love Once and Les Miserables, and I love crying through every musical. I know the lyrics to every song, and Paul loves my adamant dedication to anything musical. He is a movie buff, so understands my obsession with music. I love The Beatles, and much of my writing stems from their song lyrics.
After three years of living together in complete happiness, Don proposes. I am 27 and he is 28. I say yes, laughing while he slips the engagement ring on my finger. It is beautiful, just how I see him. The ring is my favorite shade of emerald, and there is a huge diamond located at the very center.
Half a year later, Paul and I have a small ceremony, with our closest e friends and family. We get married on a small beach in Santa Monica, Los Angeles, like I have always wanted.
We honeymoon in Venice, where the water floods the streets. I cannot remember a day when we do not smile in each other’s company. He makes me so happy that I forget what sadness feels like.

All seems well, until he gradually falls deathly ill. He has pneumonia and water stuck in his failing lungs. He has been growing weaker, but we both fail to think much of it. It is an annual doctor check-up when they discover his illness. They say it is serious.
Paul stays in the hospital overnight, and it pains me to see him this way. So powerless. The limp body lying in the sterile hospital bed is foreign to my eyes that are so used to seeing the strong Paul I have come to love.
The doctors lie, saying he will be fine in no time. Except that he never comes home again. Never again do we share a night together. Hospital beds are too small for two, and he is too sick to be kissed. He is too sick to do anything, and nothing is really the same as those glorious years that preceded his illness.

I visit Paul everyday in the hospital and weep over his frail body. I find myself growing stronger from his weakness. It is like he infuses energy into me. I watch as he falls apart, struck by the reality that I am powerless to save him.
On November 21st , Paul dies. I cry days, maybe weeks, straight. I have lost the love of my life, my soulmate.  I search the whole apartment, looking for clues as to why he had to leave me.
I eventually find a note in my nightstand drawer.
Miranda, thank you. Thank you for loving me more than I loved myself. And for wanting to marry me. And for being beautiful, brave and fearless. You deserve an amazing life, so move on from me and find someone else who makes you just as happy, even happier. Do this for me. Do not grieve for too long. Please just keep living. I love you, forever and always.
My tears stain the faded paper, and I hold it in my shaking hand until the early morning. I do not sleep for days on end, because sleeping without him will kill me. I also am afraid to sleep, because never waking up is how my Paul died. I memorize his words in the note, because they are the last thing of his I have left.
When I call Michelle, she answers on the first ring and cries with me. I am a mess: I have not slept or eaten for days.
“Do what you know how to do, Miranda. Move on; walk around. Go on a run. Find someone else. It may take a while, but you will. I love you just as much as he did. You will find happiness, maybe not now, but soon. I promise,” Michelle tells me.
“Okay,” I say, because I do not know what else to say. I hang up, my throat raw from crying.

The next person I call is a previous lover. He is the one I turn to in desperation. His voice makes me spill the truth, and that is exactly what I need right now.
“Hey, Don,” I whisper into the phone. It is 11pm, but time means nothing now that my Paul is gone.
“Hey, hon, Miranda, how are you?” Don asks, not acting at all surprised at my call. Although this is the first time I have called since the break-up, he acts as if nothing has changed since the day I left him.
“Not good, Don. Not good,” I say, choking back tears.
“Oh, what’s wrong? Tell me…” he pleads, asking in that silky voice he knows I love.
“Paul, Paul, my husband … he died, Don. He died. He was so sick, and there was nothing I could do. But it’s my fault, Don. It has to be! Why else would he leave?” I say, practically screaming by the end. There is no one but me in the apartment, so I can yell as loud as I wanted.
I have always found it weird that your voice is still heard, even if there is no one but you to hear it.
“Miranda, it is not your fault! I do not understand how and why you think the way you do!”
“What do you mean?”
“I just never have. You think anything that goes wrong is your fault. But, it is not! You are so funny and cute. You make everyone so happy. Anytime you walk into a room, everyone smiles at you. You always say hi, even to people you barely know. And it makes their day. You do not realize just how important you are to so many people.”
I start crying as he says this. I never did think I was needed. I never knew. Although I do not miss everything about Don, I do miss his way with words. He used to say the most amazing things, strung together just right.
“This may sound crazy, but I really want to see you right now, Don.”
“No, that’s not crazy. I want to see you too.”
I smile and we keep talking into the wee hours of the morning. He promises he will fly east soon. He is living in Oregon now, with his new girlfriend Lola. They are happy together, and I am happy for him, yet still miss his presence in my life.

Don visits a week after his call, true to his promise. I pick him up at the Manhattan Kennedy Airport airport, as Paul and I have not moved. Don had told Lola that I was just an old friend. He had not mentioned our history together, as she would have probably held him back from coming. It was not lying, just withholding information. This was a form of deceit, yet not a full act of lying.
“Miranda!” Don shouts as he sees me outside baggage claim. He wraps me in his arms, and we hug for a long time. The hug says everything that can not be put into words. His forgiveness for my leaving, his apology for lying several times, his empathy for what I was going through, and his love for me that had never left.
“Don,” I whisper into his bushy hair that I still love. When we pull apart, I smile at him. We catch up, and I get the impression that Lola is a very nice girl. She is taller than Don, which is quite a feat, and she is gorgeous, from what I can tell from his pictures. I am happy for him.
I bring him back to  my apartment, where we talk into the night. We watch movies, but we really just talk over them. I love seeing him again, and I am so glad I called the week before.
Don leaves after a couple great days together and promises he will come again soon. But the next time he comes, I am in the hospital.

That brings us to the end of the story of the three people, well really four, I now know. They each had an immense affect on me. I owe my life to Michelle. I owe my heart to Paul. I owe my sense of caring to Don. I owe my knowing of right and wrong to Sonia. I owe my lack of family to my parents.

These three each told me I was beautiful, brave, and fearless. But, the most important person, me, was the only one who didn’t believe that. And because of this, I was never able to be truly happy. But I tried, and that’s all you can do in this life. Try until you can try no longer.
My attempts brought great success. I wrote ten screenplays, and four had been made into major motion pictures. I won two Oscars for best screenplay and was nominated for a third. But the demons of self-doubt, unworthiness, and failure never really left me.
After years of dealing with my depression, I could not live with it anymore. I began eating less and less, and eventually became anorexic. Then they realized I had cancer — breast cancer, to be exact. Combined with my malnutrition, depression, and recently-developed bipolar disorder, cancer sent me over the edge. I was in the hospital for chemotherapy but died during the process.
During my treatment, Michelle sits beside me. She weeps over my fragile body, just as I cried over Paul’s body many years earlier. I close my eyes for the last time late one night, falling into a deep sleep that links me with my one true love. I have always believed in something after death, but I had never had any idea of what was there.
Now I know that there is a heaven, yet not really a hell. Just more of a place where the bad ones go. All humans are inherently good, yet some stray. Oftentimes it’s not their own faults;  it’s just their unfortunate circumstances.

It was then that I understood why each of these three people had meant so much to me: they showed me how to live with passion and how to live without regrets. Despite having a short life, I did everything I could ever ask for; next to the people I loved most. And that was enough for me.
The magic of my life only lasted for so long, and when it faded, I had four people to thank: Michelle, Don, Paul, and myself.
I lived a full life, and the angels brought me home in the end.

Now, the reader will probably be wondering what happened to Michelle and Don. Don and that ‘slut’ Amy ended up together. They married too hastily, which led to a nasty divorce.
Michelle and Don both kept diaries, which allowed their stories to be shared with their children and grandchildren. This is a blessing and a curse. Some stories are better left untold, yet some need to be heard. There is a fine line between the two.
But, Don soon reconnected with the beautiful girl Lola, that girlfriend from Oregon. They married and lived happily together in a big house in Oregon until they both passed, within months of each other. They had two lovely boys who carried on their legacy of love. Leland and Stephen: both cute little redheads, who got their good looks from their parents.
Michelle and Don kept in touch, and Michelle met his two sons. She had never liked Don because of the way he treated me. However, she appreciated him by the time he died. She recognized what I had seen in him: his undying love for everyone around him. 
As for Michelle: she finally found someone good and steady. His name was Victorio, and he was a beautiful Italian. She had met him while vacationing in Ravello, along the Amalfi Coast, over summer.
Victorio came home with her, and they married three years later. By that time, she was 32 and he was 34. They lived together very happily, with a large family of four children. There were two boys—Antonio and Mario—and two twin girls—Margaretta and Lily. A family of six was considered small for an Italian family, so due to the pressure of Victorio’s family, they had one more baby girl: the little Lolita. She was adorable and learned from her older siblings and doting parents.
All of Michelle’s children were beautiful and had the blessing of being deeply loved by Michelle and Victorio. They had wonderful childhoods and lived to see Michelle and Victorio pass. Michelle died 55 years after marrying Victorio. She lived until 88: a long and fulfilling life. Victorio passed two years later, when he was 92. By this time, Antonio was 57, Mario was 55, the twins were 53, and the not-so-little Lolita was 50.
Each of Victorio and Michelle’s children lived long and happy lives, blessed by loving parents and blissful childhoods.

As for Paul and me, we are reunited up in heaven. We spend the rest of our days among the angels in the clouds. I cannot really explain what heaven is like, but it is enough for us. It never really matters where Paul and I are, as long as we are together.
And I guess that is what I have been trying to say this whole time—it does not matter what happens to you in life. The what, how, where, and why do not matter. It is the who. As long as you value the people beside you, you will be fine. Just fine.

Here is the moral of my story: everyone will come in to your life for a reason. Cherish each one of them until they go. There is a reason for everything, and a purpose for everyone. Michelle saved my life, Don taught me how to care deeply, and Paul taught me how to love.
Happiness and self-worth lie within. Find yourself early on, and do whatever you can to make yourself happy. Surround yourself with the ‘once in a lifetime’ people. Once you die, you will only have memories to look back on. So make your life memorable.
As I said: the what does not matter in life, it is the WHO.