Hartini.

I tried to write a eulogy for you today. In fact, I've been trying to write it down for days now. But the words won't come, or maybe they did, but I sent them away so I won't have to face your death. Remembering only makes the death more real than it already is. Pushing the memory away makes me less vulnerable, less painful. Every time someone mentions about your death, I would picture you with all five of us. We would be hanging out together this school holidays just like you planned last month. You'd be complaining about your weight and I'd be telling you the downside of being slim - that if you crossed the roads, people would run you over with their cars, because from the sideways, it's like you weren't even there. You'd double over with laughter and tell me that I'm a psycho. I liked that story better, so I painted it over the real one, thinking that once I erased it, it'll be gone. And like any other grieving best friends, I believe that not thinking about it is the right thing to do. But I was wrong. If I erased your death, there would be no way for me to take a look back and remember you. All of you.

When I first learnt about your death, I tried to take in what they were saying about you, but most of it went over my head. The death itself was unreal, but what hit me most was the suddenness of it, the totality of you that was lost, the same person who took eight years marking her presence in my life, only to be wiped away in seconds. And as I scrolled down the many comments and statuses about your death, my mind was frantically searching the memories stashed inside, trying to remember the last impression you had of me. What was the last thing I told you? Have I ever saved you in every way that a person can be saved? Did I tell you I love you enough? And even if I didn't, did you know it anyway? You see, first impression is often altered in time. When you get to know someone, like really get to know them, there is always a chance of you changing your mind. But last impression is nothing like that. It's infinite, permanently engraved, like writings on a tombstone. The final moments you left in someone's life stay unchangeable, it's like forever, but longer.

I tried scrolling down all the private messages flooding my inbox, each asking about you. Was it true that Tini passed away? I'm sorry about Tini. Have you heard the news? Did Tini really pass away? I didn't reply to any of them because I didn't know how. How do people respond when asked about their best friend's death? What's the right way to answer it? Is there a right way to answer it? Should a brief 'yes' be fine? Or should I extend my condolences to them as well? I never had a best friend who died. So you see, I'm a noob. I sincerely apologize to any of you whose messages left unattended.

Within seconds, I was already dialing Sya's number. I had no idea what I wanted to tell her or ask her. My hands just went autopilot. She had me at hello. I broke down. Then she broke down. For the first five minutes, none of us said anything. We just stayed there, phones in our hands, crying and breaking each other's hearts, all at the same time. In case you were wondering what did two best friends say to one another after they had lost one of their own, well, they said nothing. Because that's what we did. There were so many things to say, and yet none was equivalent to that void space you left behind. Before the conversation ended, there were only few words being exchanged, made up of a string of mumbled apologies, regrets and farewells.

So you see, today I read the eulogies posted on your wall. It's weird reading people wrote about you in past tense. You should have read them, they were pretty nice. Everyone wanted to mark their presence in your life, reminiscing their brief encounter with you, their small talks with you despite never seeing you in person, trying to show the world that they too, had once been a part of your life, and shared moments with you. You see, I could write down all the small things I know about you. The songs you listen to when you woke up, the way you tied your hair depending on your mood, the routinized clothes you wore when you woke up late to class, the way you went up the stairs two steps at a time in the morning and one step at a time in the evening. I could write on and on about the little things that make you you. But that would be an insult to me. Because I know you. And I don't need the world to understand that. I just need you to know that. Know that I noticed. Know that I knew. Know that I remember. Know that I care. Know that they meant to me, even if I never said them. Know that if there is any way I could tell them to you right now, I would.

Today, I finally managed to write you my eulogy. Here it is, in a sentence - short like the life you lived, and true like the friendship you left behind:

"Hartini was a friend, whom if you gave her a handful of black marbles, she would still see them as colourful, and she would give every coloured marble to each one of us, until she was left with none, and still she gave."

Hartini Ibrahim.
28 Oct 1987 - 21 Dec 2013.
Al-Fatihah. May you finally rest in peace.

Last words.