Whenever Logan thought of Lilly, she was wearing white.

It didn’t surprise him so much that he saw her like that. White was the color of her namesake, the color of death. It was natural that she would appear to him like that.

She’d even been wearing white when she’d died. He had seen the video of her lying by the side of the pool, eyes wide open, sticky red blood staining her too-tight shirt. He’d focused on the untouched portion of her top, staring into the white and blurring it out, covering up her blood and blotting it out of his mind.

And now he could only see her clean, pure, and white like his father’s teeth or his mother’s pills. Whether she was in a tattered white dress, her pep squad uniform, or her white cotton underwear, she was always in white.

He could feel her rolling her eyes at him from the afterlife, shaking her head in disgust.

He wished he could think of her as she would have wanted to be remembered. In that gold sequined dress her mother hated, cleavage taped in and laughing like her life would never end.

But instead she was white and somber.

She couldn’t even live on in her memories. She was dead everywhere. Gone.

And she hadn’t taken him with her.