"Sweet dreams, Lucinda."

It's how my day always ends. Mom's good-night wishes come to her naturally enough, but they never come true. In fact, she may as well never tell me good night at all. With my insomnia, there's a very slim chance that I will ever "sleep tight" or have the slightest hint of dreams. And if I do, they're always nightmares. Horrid, vivid, terrifying nightmares.

But I know Mom doesn't just say it out of habit. I believe she truly wants me to have sweet dreams. That's just how she is.

"You too," I reply, half-heartedly. I finish filling my glass with water before hurrying up the spiral staircase.

Once I'm safely behind the closed door of my bedroom, I collapse onto my deep purple quilt and sigh. There's no point in pulling back my covers and climbing in. I'll probably get up in a while anyway. When the brain can't be rested, it may as well be worked.

To be honest, I'm exhausted. It seems to be weariness that keeps me awake all night. Lately, though, everything has been worse. With my best friend's passing only a month behind me, the wound is still so fresh. And I know it will never get easier.

I remember the last afternoon we spent together at the lake, only one week before she went back to the hospital, never to return. We had just gotten back from an hour-long canoeing session and were now perched a few meters away from the water.

The lake—that had always been our favorite spot on the planet. While all the other older teens and college students used their time to have a blast at amusement parks and movie theatres, Bev and I were content sitting in the solitude of the lake. When life's clock is ticking, calculating the minutes and seconds leading to the last breath, it's vital to make sure that the last few moments aren't wasted.

The afternoon at the lake was bittersweet, and so were her final words to me.

"So," Beverly began, twisting to face me, "how are you taking all this?"

I was silent for a few seconds. When I did answer, I did my best to avoid her question. "You'll be fine, Bev," I said. Looking back, it seems that I was really trying to convince myself. We both knew she wouldn't be fine. There was no denying it, and yet I was still living in denial.

Bev turned back to the still lake, not saying a word. But I could tell exactly what she was thinking under all that genuine bravery. Just like I was, she was afraid.

A few heavy moments later, Bev's eyes found mine once again. "Lucinda, listen to me." Her tone of voice made me shiver. "Only God knows how I'll come out of all this. Cancer...it's unpredictable." Her voice trembled as she spoke. "But I also want you to remember that I'll be happy. Here on earth, if I'm allowed to remain, I'll be happy. And if I die, the perfection of heaven will await me. I want you to be happy no matter what happens, too."

"I'm sorry, Bev," I mumble into my pillow. She would have wanted me to be happy. She wouldn't want to see me like this, day after day. Beverly was happy now—happier than any human being on earth could even imagine. I often wonder if it's her happiness that's making mine shatter.

I toss around for half an hour, wrinkling the quilt a little more with every move I make. No, there's nothing left to live for. Bev is gone; my life is gone. She fought for her life, and I know she fought for mine, too. But sometimes, we as humans aren't strong enough. Not alone.