I still have a picture of the girl I raped on my refrigerator.

Warped, I know. It’s just one of those things, one of those things I think I’ll never let go.

She was beautiful—at least I thought so, and I’ll never forgive myself for what I did. I never thought she’d take it so hard, never thought what I did to one girl would have so much impact. Even though no one knows it was me.

If I hadn’t, maybe she’d be here, and I could just hold her hand.

If that day had never happened, I wouldn’t have to carry around this secret.

If I’d never done it, maybe she’d have been smiling in that picture.

I wish I had an excuse, but I don’t. For the longest time I tried to blame it on her. Then I blamed it on me. I try to forget, but forgetting is hard. I have her face there, on my refrigerator, to punish me, every day of my existence. So I have to look right into her eyes every morning.

I could have made it right with her, if she’d given me the chance. But she didn’t.

Because she killed herself the day after.