Almost no clouds covered the busy city from the raging heat of the summer sun. The lively green hues of the trees, the car honks, and the stench of sweat clinging to my skin; all of it had annoyed me as I walked through the streets. Despite how hot it was, I could still feel the icy chill in my palms as I dragged my feet to the closest cemetery.
It was such a warm and clear day that no one would ever guess I'd choose to waste it here. I wasn't so sure as to why I bothered in the first place. Truthfully, I barely even knew this girl.
Camille Ramirez; the crazy junior from class A1 who had this quirky-wannabe habit of talking to flowers.
I guess if it was a year ago, that would've been the first thing to pop up into my head. But now as I stood in front of her grave, no words would dare come out even if I wanted them to.
It was this name of hers that invoked sleepless nights and hushed whispers, that spoke of grief too great to ever get used to. Before her death, it'd be almost laughable to think of her as someone who'd cause such gloom. Camille definitely tried her best to be anyone but.
Yet somehow, a stubborn girl like her ended up being the weirdest person I had ever met.
It was two years ago on New Year's Eve. I didn't think anything of her at first, but when the disco music started and when our eyes accidentally locked, she drunkenly grabbed me by the hand and dragged me outside, away from the bustle of the noisy house party. It looked like she wanted to tell me something. I wasn't really in the mood to listen of course, the party sucked and she was still known as that crazy kid who talked to flowers. But something in me decided to still half-heartedly go with it anyway.
As she leaned in close, the loud fireworks had chosen that exact time to colour the night sky, muting what she wanted to say. I asked her to tell me again, but she stubbornly refused, looking so wasted before proceeding to puke on me instead.
It all felt so cliché, something you'd only see on one of those third-rate indie films. Needless to say, my impression of her wasn't too bright. She was noisy, reckless and annoying; definitely the type I'd try to avoid. Still, fate had other plans, and we ended up meeting many more times after that.
If asked what Camille had looked like, I wouldn't be able to answer. I only remember the small things now; the useless things people wouldn't bother remembering. I remember the blue friendship bracelet she wore on her left wrist, the way her white shoes struck the floor as she walked, and the vague scent of flowers on her thick and disheveled hair.
I also vaguely remember thinking back then that women were never meant to have such wild hair, but as time passed, I realized that Camille had never been the type to be bounded by the rules of women.
She was an enigma, and what others didn't dare do, she had done herself. I found myself always at the edge of my seat when I was with her. She carelessly told me her problems, her worries, her aspirations, like I was this close friend of hers. And I hated it, how one year was all it took for Camille to selfishy place a knife in my thoughts, burying it a little deeper when death's doors came to greet her one day.
I didn't really remember much of it. Maybe my mind just refused to. All I remembered was waking up in the hospital, panicking at how her twinkling eyes gradually drifted closed in a sleep beside me, and how awful it felt knowing that they'd never again wake.
She looked so serene and peaceful just laying there. And I found myself thinking that this kind of expression didn't suit Camille at all. Things weren't supposed to turn out this way, and the fact that they did had annoyed me to no end.
Occasionally, on snowy days, when the nights were at their coldest, and even the thickest blankets couldn't protect me from their harsh chills, I'd twist and turn in my sleep just seeing her in my dreams.
They were only snippets, fragments of the moments with her that I treasured most. Some of them were stupid, some were happy, some were mundane, but one thing was for sure: all of them haunted me.
I'd suddenly be taken back to that night we met from two years ago, and she'd just stand there smiling, holding my hands. I would hold hers just as tight, forcing her to talk to me, to at least tell me what she couldn't say back then.
I promised I wouldn't mind if she was noisy anymore, and I promised I wouldn't judge if she liked talking to flowers. I would even sit to listen. But words would never come out past her lips no matter how hard I tried.
In my dreams, I'd just be left standing there, burdened to never know her secret that had selfishly scattered itself into the wind that snowy New Year's Eve.
When I finally decided to crouch down in front of her gravestone, I took my time with the white flowers beside her, making sure each one was carefully placed the way she liked it. I lingered there for a while, only choosing to stand when the setting sun appeared.
As I stood up, it wasn't the haunting echo of her voice that first reached my ears, but my words to her that were regretfully left unsaid.
"Camille Ramirez, I told the wild flowers about you."