Death is an interesting concept, isn't it? Especially when it strikes at a young age. It's so unexpected.

Lucinda was only 25 when she passed.
We met over a year ago in an eating disorder community. Horrible place, but some lovely people. Most of the people there were crude and boring, but she was a breath of fresh air. Luci was bubbly and tried her best to make everyone happy. She was in recovery. I cheered her on as I saw her getting better. Her emaciated body was learning how to stomach things again.
She gave up.

Luci, baby, I was so pissed off at you. It was so hard to watch you slowly wither away for a false sense of comfort. You looked and felt 55 instead of 25 and we were all supposed to see your cute persona and ignore everything that was going on underneath. You always said your body was more adapt to your eating disorder, which I know was untrue. I watched you stomach chocolate milk and crackers and everything, and you gave that away. You said it's not a suicide project but you know it will kill you in the end and that you don't mind it, and that pissed me the hell off.
Your family and friends were the worst part of it all. Their ignorance and idolization of your emaciation and slow suicide never went away. When you had your heart attack, they did nothing. I was mad at you for not stepping up and cutting them off. You deserved more. Your lack of ambition is what killed you, not your disorder.

You may have indulged in the thing I hate most, but I still love you. I'll forever be reminded of you when I see unicorns, rainbows and black coffee. One day you'll tell me if there really is a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow.