When I was eighteen, I died.

I was on the side of the highway at dusk after a cool, grey day in Forks. The young man, who had stopped under the premise of helping me, wasn't really there to help me at all.

My best friend was there with me when I passed. I knew because I could see.

They had their arms wrapped around my body, still warm from when life inhabited it. They were listening for my heart and squeezing me, as if it might put me back together. But the walls of my lungs were not expanding and deflating of their own volition anymore.

The traumatised look on my best friend's face should have torn my heart apart along the invisible seams of its chambers, making it disintegrate with the force of the next contraction. If it had still been beating.

It wasn't.

I was bleeding. I was broken.

And all I could do was stare.