*** WARNING: Topics of bullying and suicide and LGBT+ are discussed in this short***

Dear whoever finds this,

Her parents named her Sunday because it had a nice ring to it. Not as a religious trope or because it was the day she was born. It was because Sunday Adams was pleasing to the ears.

    Sunday was out and proud at the age of seventeen. She was constantly made fun of, but that didn't slow her down, or so I thought. Her parents were the only ones who seemed to support her. Whenever she brought it up to me, I changed the subject. I was able to avoid it until last month.

    We were back in the tree house that was getting a bit old. The branches began to sag and the pictures we hung began to slowly droop. There was a huge window on the left wall of the tree house and next to it was our friendship contract. We signed it the day we met. I lost myself in the sound of the rain as Sunday ranted about something. I wasn't listening until I heard four little words that would change everything.

    "I love you, Adelaide." I smiled up at her as I replied.

    "Love ya too, Sunday." Her face softened."What?"

    "I love you, love you. Like-I'm in love with you. I understand that you're religious, but that doesn't mean you get to ignore it. " She sat next to me, and I found myself resisting the urge to back away. "I'm tired of feeling like an alien because of who I am, and I'll be damn if you-of all people-make me feel like some E.T." And with those words, she leaned in close. Desperation filled her eyes as she pressed her lips to mine. I was shocked at first, but I couldn't help but be seduced by the tingle of her touch. I wished I ended it there that night, but I didn't. I let her keep going. I let her hands explore my skin; I let her lips trace me. I let Sunday feel accepted for a night. Feel wanted for a night. But when the morning came, I was gone. I stopped talking to her. If only I knew what that would do to her. She started skipping class and hanging with the wrong crowds. I knew something was wrong, but, still, I said nothing. If only I'd said something. Because maybe Sunday would still have that glint in her eyes. Maybe Sunday would still be Sunday, and not that one senior girl who killed herself.

    I'm in the tree house staring at the spot she was found. A note was clutched to her chest that said "It's not your fault." She didn't bother to say why, or at least say goodbye. That wasn't Sunday's style. To her, something's were suppose to remain a mystery. She was suppose to remain a mystery. I can't bring myself to not leave a reason. To not tell you why. I've now migrated to the floor with her note in my hands. Her parents couldn't bare to keep it.

Whoever finds this, I'm sorry you had to see this. I didn't mean for you to have this image forever embedded into your head, I just needed someone to know. I loved Sunday for everything she was, and I can't live knowing that I killed her. Sunday Adams is no longer pleasing to the ears. Sunday Adams no longer has a nice ring to it. The name Sunday Adams just brings pain to peoples hearts. And that's all my fault.

                                                                                                                   I'm sorry,

                                                                                                                   Adelaide Ramirez