"Not Owen," I breathed.

Suddenly, the world felt too dark, the space too small. My hand absentmindedly went to my chest, which ached with the quick compressions of my lungs.

I can't remember how many times I had said those two, simple words, "Not Owen."

First, when I was a child, too young to understand patience, but old enough to know I should tolerate people who annoyed me. Often, Owen would come and knock on our door. He only lived two houses down the street. He'd ride his bike down the sidewalk just to skip up to the door and ask me to play. If I was having a rough day, I'd usually groan at my mother when she answered his knock, whining, "Not Owen..."

Then, when we were in middle school. It was an awkward time when we weren't friends due to active hormones and stupid crushes. Of course, we'd still come up with lame excuses to talk to each other, so we still kept in touch -- just in a very middle-schooler way. If one of my friends pointed across the room at his lanky frame and continuously embarrassed expression, revealing that he was her crush, I would just laugh and say, "Not Owen!"

Because Owen was my friend. I had always been fond of him, only to realize that when it was too late.

In highschool, rumors went around about fights and the kid who got involved to defend the victim. Always, someone would begin to tell me about the hero. Under my breath I'd sigh, "Not Owen." We'd meet after school that day to walk home, silent because of the harsh realities of nosebleeds and lethal words. Between Freshman, Sophomore, and the beginning of Junior year, we grew close.

"Not Owen" was a phrase built into my vocabulary. Often, I would say it out of protection. I didn't want him to be hurt again. I had witnessed him break down over his parents' disappearance, and I never wanted to see him in that much pain again. If something was threatening him, or even had the potential to, I'd defend him.

He could defend himself. In fact, Owen was very intelligent. He found loop-holes easily and could counter the opponents' opinion almost naturally. Very easily, he could've thrown a punch and knocked out the people who teased him. He never did, though -- that's why he was harassed.

His soul was too gentle, too joyous, too kind to cause anyone -- anyone -- even a degree of pain. Most people aren't like that. When he wasn't around to speak for himself, I stepped in.

I know he did the same for me. I had witnessed it. Our friendship was a rare kind of genuine. I knew I was lucky. I knew it was too good to be true when I realized not everyone had an Owen.

We had our ups, downs, and heartbreak, but it always came back to who was there from the beginning. Who volunteered to be there, even if the other was angry, emotional, or nervous. We had our good times, too. Getting accepted into clubs, onto sports teams, acing tests, creating beautiful music and art.

The point being, he was always there, in a sense. He was there, even when I didn't want him to be.

We were friends, and that was that. I didn't know if I had feelings for him otherwise. He never brought up the topic of relationships, and neither did I. The pair of us were content with our roles, unsure if we should want to be more.

"Not Owen."

Never had I said those words through tears or agony or remorse. Not until the day fear and panic erupted in my stomach. I shouldn't have opened the computer, I should've waited.

I knew Owen was flying overseas to Europe to visit his grandparents, who had relocated there. Only months after Owen had been born, his parents had abandoned him. His uncle had raised him after that. For seventeen years of his life, it had just been the two of them and the ghost grandparents he talked about sometimes. When Owen had decided to visit them, I hadn't been surprised. He seemed curious about them, as he was curious about everything.

News travels fast. Especially on the internet. So when I logged onto Twitter and saw the trending disaster, I denied it immediately. My consciousness tried to coax me into seeing that it was true and real. I knew what flight Owen was on, I even knew his seat number -- not because I was a creep, but because he had told me. Out of his fascination for traveling, he had told me.

I felt my mouth form an O in horror. My heart nearly stopped beating in my chest. I couldn't tear my eyes away from the screen glaring back at me, the pictures of the accident, the words "NO PASSENGERS SURVIVED. FIFTY LIVES LOST."

For a long time, all I could do was stare. The sun had shifted, causing its rays to land on me through the windows. I sat on the floor with textbooks laid in front of me. Not that I could think about studying. Internally, I was panicking, denying, sorting. It couldn't be true.

A knock came to the front door of our house. Slowly, I closed my laptop and listened to the low murmurs downstairs. My mother mentioned my name, but before she could call for me, I was standing at the top of the steps. Owen's uncle and my mother looked up at me, both distraught and sorrowful.

Then I knew. I walked to the living room and sat with my parents, listening to his explanation. I don't remember him leaving or me functioning after that. Nothing else mattered. Owen was the one who didn't make me feel alone. Without him, we were no longer Owen and Adaliah. We turned into me.

He wasn't there to comfort me. I couldn't hear him say that I would be okay, so that thought never crossed my mind. I couldn't imagine ever being 'okay' without Owen.

I lived hopelessly.

The sun went in cycles and the moon begged me to watch it's short time in the sky, but I didn't. I hardly slept. If I did, I didn't notice. Either way, I was inflicted with torturous images of  what had happened to Owen. Like many of the deceased passengers, his body was never found.

Unwillingly, I forced myself to face the fact that he was gone, and I was alone. I stood against that fact, fighting reality with all I had. He was only on a trip, he would have to come back sometime... Right?

There was no casket at his funeral, but his uncle still payed for his gravesite. Everyone still went there after we watched videos and heard stories of the beautiful soul the world had lost. I didn't need to be reminded.

Up until the funeral, I had held in everything. Anyone who had come in contact with Owen mourned his loss, who was I to add to the pain? I shut myself down, then isolated myself. The only time I allowed myself to cry was in the shower, and that was only because I couldn't tell the difference between the tears and the hot water.

The hurricane of emotions was locked into my body; I didn't dare acknowledge it. I didn't think about anything, for if I did, I would inevitably think of Owen. And he was only on a trip. Why mourn him if he would come back?

While all of this was bad, it got worse. I realized, as I listened to Owen's uncle at his funeral, that I had taken Owen for granted. I never thought I'd live a day without him in my life. How selfish was I to try to bring peace to my being, when he was really dead? He deserved respect, but I was too afraid to face what had happened. He didn't deserve that.

Owen, who saw the bright side of things. He was the one who was kind and generous. He knew when I was upset and listened to me when I was angry. On the rare occasion he was angry, he wouldn't blame anyone but himself. His smile always lit up his face, unless something was wrong.

In all honesty, he cared nothing of himself. He was too busy making sure everyone knew they were a someone. He didn't deserve anything less than the truth, so why would I try to pretend he wasn't dead?

As I stood in the field of gravestones, I came across another thought. This one released the hurricane.

Everyone needs a someone. He was my someone. He wasn't coming back to me.

I held this in until everyone had left. My parents left me to myself, somehow understanding that I needed to be alone. Grant, Owen's uncle, left too. They had accepted his absence, accepted that his death was real. I was just waking up from the dream of denial. My nightmare had come true.

The late summer grass was tall and brushed my ankles. A breeze played with the hem of my dress, ran its delicate fingers through my hair. The sun was setting in a beautiful way through the trees, reflecting off the pond only a few paces away.

The scene was Owen's. He was joyous and strong, but careful and protective. His gravestone was small, simple, with only his name on it. I lifted my eyes to it and everything came out.

I collapsed on my knees, throwing my arms around the stone, sobbing against its cold surface. Owen was the one I looked up to, who I wanted to be like. How was I supposed to continue when I had no one to guide me? No one to learn with me? No one to joke with, dance with, laugh with?

My breathing came too fast to be normal. I felt my chest hitch as I tried to regain control, clinging to the stone with trembling hands. I was making hideous hyperventilating sounds, yet I desired to speak with him. I shoved my hair out of my face and traced his name with my fingers.

"O-Owen...," I gasped. I could hardly see though the tears, but I pictured speaking to him. His blond curls, freckled cheeks, and deep, chocolate brown eyes. He looked into my eyes, his hand on my arm, rubbing my skin with his thumb. His face only showed concern as he scooted closer. "I'll l-l-live for -- for you."

I pictured him embracing me, but he wasn't there. Only his stone representative, which didn't return the comforting gesture.

In the days, weeks, and months following, I attempted not to just survive, but to live. That's what Owen would've wanted. Since then, I've kept telling myself that.

>>>>>>>>>>

{July 8, 2017}

(PC: hunter || instagram)