You didn’t put her in the ground. But you were part of the reason she couldn’t stand to be here anymore.

⸻

She’s gone. And you kept living like nothing happened.

Not a flower at the gate.

Not a card. Not a candle.

No teddy bears. No quiet circles of grief.

No stunned silence in the hallway.

Just school. As usual.

Laughter. As usual.

Cruelty. As usual.

And that’s the most damning part of all.

When a child dies and no one flinches, no one gathers, no one mourns—what does that say?

What does that reveal about the people who surrounded her in her final days?

⸻

You didn’t have to kill her to help erase her joy

She was already avoiding school. She was already staying home, afraid to walk the halls.

She was already dreading each morning.

She was already broken long before her final breath.

And you knew that.

Some of you saw it.

Some of you laughed at it.

Some of you made it worse.

And now—she’s gone.

Whether her death was an accident or not isn’t even the point anymore.

The point is: her life became unbearable—and some of you made sure of it.

⸻

To the one who told her to kill herself—

Are you sleeping well?

Do you hear your own voice in the dark?

Telling her the exact thing that so nearly came true?

What did you expect? That your words would disappear?

That she’d bounce back? That she’d just laugh it off?

She didn’t.

She didn’t laugh.

She didn’t bounce.

And now you will have to live with that voice in your head for the rest of your life.

The one that said it. Out loud. To a girl who is no longer here.

⸻

To the parents of the bullies—what exactly are you raising?

Do you still believe your child is “just a kid”?

Do you still think it’s harmless teasing?

Do you still tell people your child would never be that cruel?

Because here’s the truth: they were. And they weren’t alone.

Your child’s words might not have ended her life,

but they chipped away at it,

day after day,

until it barely felt worth living.

If that doesn’t shake you to your core, you’re failing your child just as much as they failed her.

⸻

You don’t get to rewrite what you did

She’s gone.

You can’t take back the texts.

You can’t undo the silence when she sat alone.

You can’t reverse the decision to “just walk away” while she was drowning in humiliation.

You don’t get to decide now that you “weren’t part of it.”

You were.

And even if you weren’t throwing stones—you still stood and watched her get hit.

That makes you part of the damage.

That makes you part of the story.

⸻

Imagine what her last month could have looked like

She could have laughed more.

She could have come to school without fear.

She could have sat with friends at lunch,

instead of hiding in corners or staying home completely.

She could have made memories.

She could have felt light, even once.

But she didn’t.

Because of you.

Because of your kids.

Because of what this school allowed.

⸻

The lesson?

If you are cruel to someone,

and they die—accident or not—you are not innocent.

If your words drained the colour from her days,

you don’t get to pretend your hands are clean.

You don’t get to look the other way now.

You helped dim her light.

You helped teach her that the world was unkind.

You helped make life unbearable, even if you didn’t make death inevitable.

And if that doesn’t haunt you—

you’ve learned nothing.

⸻