You sit, alone and afraid, staring down at the white floor, the killer still in your hand.

You sit, head throbbing from when you were hit.

Your face cut by glass from the window that showered down like hot sand.

Such a small mistake, so small, barely there; how could it cause this much damage? So small, one second, half that....so small.

From inside the room comes an anguished cry, and you know, even before the doctor's feet tell you.

Yet the words still tear through your heart.

"She didn't make it."

You sit alone for another few minutes, then another pair of feet stand before you.

You know who she is, what she knows, and what she thinks. It's your fault. All your fault.

You wait for her to tell you so, to yell and place the blame. Yet you feel no relief when she leaves without saying a word.

You look down at the killer in your hand, the weapon still on its screen.

"LOL;)" it reads, the text your friend replied with, seconds before your car slammed into her side. And to think; it all could  have been avoided, if only you had kept your eyes on the road for that half a second.