I met my best friend when we were three. At three years old, you really don't remember much of anything. But there are pictures, tons of pictures. As the story goes, we had instantly taken a liking to each other. I believe it.  

I now sit cross-legged on the cold tile floor of my bedroom, looking at the thousands of pictures I've collected over the years. One photograph in particular seems to stand out the most. 

The back of the picture says 'June 11th, 1997 - Abby & Khily'. We had both been five years old. I flip the photo over and see two little girls staring back at me, arms around each other's necks. A grin seems to make it's way across my face, even through the tears forming in my eyes. 

Each photo shows the same thing: a cute blue-eyed, blonde-haired girl and an equally adorable little red-head with emerald green eyes. The red head was me. 

But, each photo tells a different story, tells of a different adventure we had been on together. We were inseparable and independent, ready to conquer the world together. 

I reach down to put the photo back and another one catches my eye. The vivid colors, the tone of this particular picture is amazing. As an avid amateur photographer, I've really began to appreciate quality as opposed to quantity. 

The colors don't seem natural for the photo, but almost as if it had been edited, which I know plenty about.  

But somehow, I know that's not the case. Whatever the reason, the picture is beautiful, and I cease to question it. 

It's a photo of Khily and I, just when we had thought she was getting better, gaining her strength back. I remember that day. I scan the photo, remember each part of it, even the insignificant things. 

It had been freezing that day, I recall. We were both bundled up and ready to trudge out into the white abyss, but not before my mother got yet another picture of us before leaving the doorstep of our home. 

Of course, we both had groaned in unison as we always did when our mothers pulled out those dreaded cameras; that I remember perfectly. 

Although it seemed it would be a miserable day due to the ridiculously cold weather, the sun was out and shining on us. The day seemed to show some promise. 

Mother got us to sit still just long enough to snap the picture. I notice we had both been squinting and had some sort of grimace on our faces. The constant photo shoots had been getting old, apparently. 

Still scanning the same photo, I notice something I wish I hadn't: in comparison to all of the other photos, Khily's golden blonde locks were scarce. She had been slowly losing her hair, that we knew, but even with the slow progression of the disease, it didn't change that it was there, and it didn't change that I would soon wonder why God chose to take my best friend.  

It seems a bit hard to visualize an eight year old, looking up at the sky and openly asking God why He couldn't "get his own best friend", but I give you my word, that is what happened that day, beneath the pale blue sky and the shining sun, that no longer seemed to show promise in my eyes. 

Every day after Khily had been taken from me, I had taken to sitting in my bedroom, drawing pictures and writing stories about adventures Khily and I had been on. 

Now, I sit in that same room, staring downs at all of the days we had spent together, and the times we had shared, though they had been numbered, unbeknownst to me. 

With that same photo still in my hand, I yell for my mother, something I normally don't do much at sixteen years old.  

She knocks gently and opens the door, a puzzled look on her face. "Are you okay, Abby? What happened?"  

This was one time when I knew that I needed my mom. The quiet of my bedroom wasn't going to calm me this time. I see her notice the picture in my hand, and now the ones spread out on the floor. She knows I've been torturing myself by looking at them; I've been doing it for years. 

She sighs. "If I had any common sense about me, I'd take these from you and put them on top of the refrigerator!" 

She knew that would get me smiling; I was only 4'11". 

She closed the door behind her and sat down next to me, and I knew it hurt her too, even now, just glancing at those pictures, and remembering. 

She took the photo I had been looking at and set it down. I knew she remembered that day too. September 22nd, 2001: a week before my whole world came to a screeching halt. 

She takes my hand, trying to console me, but I really am okay now. I turn to her and say, "Thanks, Mom." 

I grin, knowing she won't understand. 

"For what?" she asks, obviously confused. 

"For helping me remember." I smile and nod my head toward the pictures. 

A grin spread across her delicate face and I know she understands: never again will I complain about her urge to take a million photos. 

She gives me a hug, one that seems to say, "You know I love you, right?" and I tell her I love her in return. 

No longer is my mood gloomy and upset, but light and reminiscent. We turn toward the photos and, for what seemed like hours, go to that place in time where nothing matters, except a whole bunch of "remember-when's". 

Author's Note: This is somewhat a memoir, but quite a few parts are also made up. Thanks for reading guys! This is my first go at a short story, for my creative writing class, so I'd love some help!