I loved a girl once. Her name was Juniper Paisley Chase. She went by Paisley because she thought Juniper made her sound like a moon child. She had blond hair that was styled into a pixie cut that was soft to the touch like silk. If you asked her why it was cut that way, she'd say it was because long hair was what was expected of girls, and she wouldn't be like everyone else. She had dark eyes that reminded me of chocolate syrup on vanilla ice cream, for they looked a little out of place on her pale complexion. She wore a size seven in jeans, which she thought was too many sizes too big, and I thought they were just right. Most of Paisley was just right.

The thing that wasn't right about Paisley was that she wasn't always herself. On occasion she would shut people out. She'd stay in her room for days. She wouldn't eat. She wouldn't sleep. She'd sit in the same place staring blankly at the ceiling until eventually coming out like it never happened. It confused me deeply how someone so wonderful and vivacious could take a 360 turn into someone so distraught and pitiful, but that was just the way things with Paisley were. Besides, she always got better.

Or so I thought.

The day I got the call that Paisley was found dead in her bedroom, I dropped the phone and vomited down the front of my shirt. My blood went cold and I swore that it was the end for me too. As I stood in a stupor in the middle of my kitchen, yesterday's lunch slowly making its way from my shirt onto my feet, I could hear Paisley's mom screeching through the speakers of my phone.

On the day of her funeral, I gave a speech. It wasn't what I wanted to say. It wasn't what Paisley would've wanted to hear. Paisley wasn't there though, so I read what Paisley's family would've wanted to hear. It was vague and thoughtless and I felt like ice as I read it, but Paisley's family teared up and nodded along to all of my mindless chatter about the "good times". Maybe the truth just wasn't meant for funerals.

After the burial there was supposed to be a small get together for friends and family, but I went straight home. I didn't feel like reminiscing my dead girlfriend over finger sandwiches and fruit trays. Upon arriving home I flopped, quite ungracefully, onto my couch and loosened the tie of a suit I'd never wear again. I tipped my head back and looked at the ceiling.

Part of me blamed Paisley's death on her ceiling. That's all she looked at when she had her episodes after all, but after a month of seething at the ceiling, even I had to admit how petulant a thought like that was. In the end, I knew it was Paisley. No one took her away but herself.

I loved a girl once, but I'd never wish for my worst enemy to experience love the way I did.