I want to tell you a story. A simple story, one to which you might be able to relate. It’s as ordinary as any other story, yet for that reason, this story is special. This story is mine. This story could be yours. For that fact, we are one in the same. I am talking to you. You are listening to me. It could be the other way around.

I come from a big city, but that doesn’t matter. I, like you, had a group of friends growing up. We shared laughs, tough spots, moments of tenderness. We grew up together. We became one another yet stayed wholly separate.

In my group I was the floater. I was the one kid in my group who could go from my own group to another and be perfectly accepted on both sides. None of my friends had this ability. You probably knew someone like me growing up and, in all certainty, still do.

I am not a special kid, just social with a dash of introspectiveness; it’s the latter quality that keeps me writing and you reading. This is my own personal journal, but it’s not personal. However, I did at one time keep and maintain a journal. From time to time, like most people, I take it out and look at it.

This story, which I am about to impart, is lifted from one of my journals pages. The date on the page reads Feb. 8, 2005. The time is 4 a.m. The place, like where I am from, doesn’t matter. Consider it your town, your streets, your home. Remember, this could in all probability be your story lifted from your own personal journal:

“She stood there tonight looking pretty. Looking like herself. At the time, none of us had any idea what was about to unfold. I suppose you never really know what’s coming. Take it as it comes. He walked in, they left. Pretty normal. She was his girlfriend. That’s odd. Was. Funny how quickly life can change.

At around 11 the phone rang. Tom picked it up, listened and dropped the phone to the floor. We knew immediately. Too much too quickly. He did smell like whiskey. We should have known.

We all got into the car. Drove to the hospital. We waited, then waited some more. It’s never like in the movies where family and friends see them right away. We waited. People magazine is pointless. While we waited, Paul and I shared some silent words. Mandy looked on. Paul used to always make fun of Mandy for her silly sounding name, but not tonight. We all just sat there in an uneasy tension.

Then it happened just like in the movies and on TV. Some somber looking doctor, I think her name was Joan, or maybe Pam, came out and broke the news. We could tell by the look in her face. He was fine, merely banged up – a broken knee. She, well, yeah. Joan said by the time they had gotten to the hospital she had lost too much blood to make it through the night.

That’s what happens when a pole goes through your upper right arm pit angled down toward your stomach; in one side, out the other piercing everything and anything on the journey through. She was pronounced dead at 12:45 a.m. on Feb. 8, 2005. Just a few hours ago she told me her New Year’s resolution was to learn to play the guitar so she could sing about Bob Marley and smoking joints.

She looked so pretty tonight. She looked like herself. I haven’t cried yet, but I am sure it’s on its way. Funny how quickly life can turn around. If I had only told her maybe things would have turned out differently.”

This story has been locked away in my diary and my memory since that night. A close friend of mine, a girl who I should have told I was mad about, passed away due to a bad decision. She passed away because he drank too much and we didn’t have enough brawn to make him stay and put his keys down. He drank too much, we didn’t say enough and now she is gone.

I am writing this, not to make you sad, or indulge in my own past. I am writing this because three years ago to the date, a close friend of mine passed away and I never got the chance to tell her what I needed to. I often wonder if things would have turned out differently if I had told her that night how I felt about her. But I will never know.

I am writing this to tell you the old adage; life is too short, so say what you need to say. It’s much better that you say too much then to never say anything at all. This could be your story. You could have a story just like this which you can recall and now you will never truly know the answer to. It’s seven days from that yearly romantic holiday, say what you need to say. Don’t be afraid. Let the other person know, they might just let you in. They might just tell you a story.

Brad Leibowitz is a Collegian columnist. He can be reached at [email protected].