He Loved My Dead Sister, Not Me

My sister called me nine times before she jumped. I didn't answer once. Everyone says I killed her—including my fiancé, who emptied my antidepressants onto the floor and told me to die. So I did. I took a knife to her grave. But as blood hit her headstone, her first love pulled me back. He handed me a metal box. Inside: her journal, and every worthless trinket I ever gave her. She never stopped loving me.