I had a boyfriend at the time who was the last bit of hope I had left. I wanted to be close to him, but moving meant we'd never see each other again.

Teenage love is a wonderful delusion that was still intact in my mind. But as time went on, it became clear that he, too, was just another fragile piece of my reality, unable to hold together under the weight of my grief.

While I was busy making plans for the funeral of my late parents, the boy who I thought was the love of my life found someone else.

He broke up with me over a text message, saying he needed someone who wasn't "always a downer," citing my constant sadness as a burden he couldn't bear.

I realized my loss had stripped away more than just my family; it also revealed the true nature of the person I had wanted to spend the rest of my life with.

That crash took everything from me.

As I sat in the quiet of my room, my sadness turned into anger, fueled by the memories of what I'd lost. Unable to bear the harrowing silence, I started digging into the details of the accident, hoping that it would make me feel better. I was determined to find the man responsible and make him pay for the shattered pieces of my life.

The man was driving a stolen car while under the influence and fled the scene. He was never caught, and I couldn't accept that he had escaped the law. He was out there living freely while I was trapped in a prison of my own grief. I wasn't seeking petty revenge; I wanted justice for my family.