Your birthday looks different this year

Hey. It’s been some time since we’ve talked, so I wanted to give you an update.

Five years ago, I found out about your death. The news was sent through a text message, while I sat in the parking lot of Summer Moon. I planned to work on an essay that day for school. The world slowed for ... I’m not sure how long. Maybe that means for a long time. After the shock, I wrote my essay.

Days later, I yelled at my friend in the middle of the night in her driveway because I felt lost and didn’t know how to handle it. I went home and slept.

A week later, I sobbed at your funeral until I lost my voice. I walked into my job with tear-stained cheeks, wearing a dress I purchased only days earlier because I didn’t know what you wear to send off your 19-year-old friend. I changed in the bathroom and started my shift.

Five years ago, I never processed your death. I ran from it and hid. I found every distraction I could — late nights, endless shifts, spontaneous piercings — and I escaped.

For four years, I pretended that nothing happened. You were always on my mind, but you were never gone.

In December 2023, I faced the harsh reality that I couldn’t flee anymore. Your, at the time alleged, murderer was supposed to plead guilty. What was I to do? What would you have wanted? Did we share the same beliefs on the death penalty? What if I wanted something that you would have been mad about? Does that make me a bad friend?

These thoughts consumed my mind daily as I sobbed when I thought no one was looking, whether that was in my car or in my office after my co-workers went home for the day.

As guilty pleas go, it was reset. Is it wrong to say I felt free again? I wasn’t ready to face the conclusion to this story. I went back into hiding.

The trial was set for April, but it never happened because he accepted a plea bargain agreement of 55 years in prison, with credit for time served.

It felt so abrupt that I, once again, struggled to process it, but this time, I’m going to.

Something we always used to talk about was our mental health. I think you’d be happy to know that I’ve gotten better. You’d be proud. I’m in a place where I feel like I can learn to understand what your death and the plea bargain means to me.

I’ve learned that it’s okay to cry and that sometimes that is part of the process. I have such a good support system in place that I trust to let in. I’m ready to grieve. What that looks like I’m not sure, but I wanted to let you know.

Also, did you think I would forget? Your birthday was a few days ago. It’s looked different for a while; I used to cry every year, but this time, I didn’t. I’d like to think that now that justice has been served, you can find peace, so I decided to celebrate with you.

Happy (belated) birthday. Here's to a future of healing and many more celebrations.

Kelley is a reporter for the Hays Free Press/News-Dispatch. She can be reached at [email protected].