I don’t really know what to say, other than that I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that you don’t get to write anything anymore, Victoria.

I spent a lot of time after she died thinking to myself, “Someone I know was killed.” As if her world revolved around mine. But it didn’t. To be honest, I hardly knew her at all.

We worked together on my high school literary magazine, "Mercedes." I know she fought for every piece of writing and art because she didn’t have the heart to tell anyone “no.”

I know her laugh was infectious, and it echoed through room 205 every Monday after school when we put on Jimmy Fallon and Justin Timberlake’s “Hashtags” video. We couldn’t get enough.

I went to her graduation, but I didn’t go for her. I had girls in the Class of 2016 that I had known most of my life, but I remember Victoria being called. Her name caught my attention as if I had forgotten she was there. But she was there.

The day I heard the news, I pulled out my old yearbook. I don’t remember asking her to sign it. But she did, in a redish orange marker. She took up a whole column with her large scrawl, and I remember thinking that I hadn’t written enough in hers.

I didn’t have her phone number, and we didn’t hang out. I didn’t know she was one of eight siblings. I didn’t know what she wanted to be when she got older. I didn’t know so much.

I know now that life is short. Dreams don’t always turn into reality, but people can’t live that way. You had plans. Dreams. So here’s this: I will live my life to its fullest for you, and everyone else who has been taken away before we were ready.