Her car is still parked outside where I work.
It’s just sitting there. Plain, quiet. But it means everything to me.
She was my best friend. My sister. My other half.
We went through it all together, from being Corporals to Sergeants. We were roommates for over three years, first in the barracks and then at our house. From the start, we were close.
It doesn’t feel real that she’s gone. I keep telling myself the truth, but it hits hard every time. I won’t see her again. Her last breath was taken while supporting people in Afghanistan. She died doing what she loved.
There was an explosion. And just like that, she was gone.
Growing up in the Marine Corps, we always heard the war stories from the older vets. They talked about Iraq and Afghanistan. It felt far away—like it wasn’t something that would happen to us. We joined during harmony. We trained, we prepared, but it felt like stories from another time.
Then it happened. One bad moment changed everything.
Some of us went to Afghanistan. Some didn’t come back.
I still see her car outside the Common Shop at Camp Lejeune. I drove it a bit while mine was in the shop, and then I just left it there. I thought it’d be ready for her when she came home.
Marines walk past it every day. Some knew her. Some didn’t. But they all saw her car. To them, maybe it was just a car. But to me, it holds so much more.
Now, those war stories we used to hear don’t feel so far anymore.
She’s not coming back. Her car is still there.
I remember the picture we took that day on Sugar Cookie Hill. We climbed it to honor the fallen. I never thought her name would be on one of those crosses one day.
She was only 23.
She was strong, kind, and full of light. She cared deeply. She loved being a Marine.
She was my person.
Until we meet again, Sergeant Nicole Gee.
I love you. Always.
