New year, new me! This year is for sure gonna rock. Well, it will at least be better than last year. Technically, it is January, since it's past midnight. I should really go to bed. Farewell, new journal. Hopefully I'll see you tomorrow, provided I don't forget. Signing off.

Dear Diary,

It is officially January 2nd, and this year is already better than the last.

By that, I mean, none of my best friends have died at least!

It's been six months since Casey left me, and I'm still pretty mad about it. Not because she died, really, we all knew that was coming, with the diagnoses and the hospital stays and the fact she couldn't even get through a school day without passing out. I'm mad because I'm on my own. Don't get me wrong, Mom and Derek are great, and so is Jaxson whenever he comes home from college, and all the teachers seemed to have eased off on my shitty grades, but I'm still on my own.

We were supposed to go to college next year. I just can't imagine going alone.

The thing I miss most about her is how bubbly she was. She had this aura I can only describe as pink, like raspberry lemonade, or the pink champagne her Mom let us drink, because Casey was dying, and she would never turn 21, so she deserved to try it at least once in her life. It tasted disgusting, like when Aunt Cheryl came from Australia and let us try Vegemite. She was like honey and marshmallows, and the sickness tool it all away from her.

You probably think I'm a little kid, calling it the sickness.

I can call it what it was. It was stomach cancer. But I just can't reconcile such a medical term, something that belongs on hospital charts and death certificates with her. She wasn't a diagnosis. She was my best friend, since we were 4, and we met in Kindergarten, because I was too scared of the swings and wouldn't stop watching Casey in awe, because it looked so fun, and I was so mad at myself for not being able to get on them. Casey help my hand and helped me balance in the seat, and she pushed me as lightly as I wanted, and then I wasn't scared anymore, and she pushed me so hard I felt like I was flying.

She always made me feel like I was flying.

What do you do when your wings are cut and you have to face the fact you're hurtling towards the ground?