I needed to see her dead.

I needed to see her dead.
Diana

Ten days have passed since that chase that seemed like a bad movie—except it was our life. Ten days since the car fell off the bridge, since the flash on TV, since the feeling that something could finally change. They say justice arrives in crooked ways. Well, it has arrived.

Two days ago they confirmed it: they found Meredite's body. They found it. Reading that on my phone screen was strange; I wanted to feel a jolt of victory and I felt a void. The news came with images, repetitions, official voices saying that the identification was made and that everything indicates that the current did the rest. She left the bridge and the tide did the work that many people wanted to do for me in anger. But the police don't talk about "luck"—they talk about procedures, reports, forensics. And I, who wanted a more theatrical ending, got paperwork and deadlines.

Her family requested a closed-casket wake. They said the body was unrecognizable. There was no parade of photos, no tears displayed on national television—only the covered coffin and the heavy silence of those forced to appear. When I saw the image of the coffin being closed for the first time, my stomach clenched. I couldn't decide if it brought me relief or a guilt so thick it suffocated me.

Yesterday I went to the funeral.

I didn't go alone. Ethan went with me, discreet, tense as if it were a parade of steel. My mother insisted on going too—she needed to see it with her own eyes. I hesitated until the last second. I didn't know if I wanted to close this cycle watching the coffin lid slam shut. I wanted distance and, at the same time, some conclusion that didn't appear in the police reports. What happened was a giant knot that needed, somehow, to be tied.

The drive to the cemetery was short, but I felt every step. The car seemed heavier than usual—as if the conscience of this entire month was sitting in the back seat, looking at me with disapproval. There were flowers, of course. Many arrangements. Letters expressing “my condolences.” People I didn’t even remember knowing sent messages saying they felt for us. The press? They stayed away; only a few photographers, all with the look of someone chasing clicks.

When we arrived, I saw her family—closed faces, somber clothes, some attempts at consolation that seemed rehearsed. There was embarrassment in the air, that embarrassment that lingers when someone dies and no one else has the courage to talk about what they did. I felt a little repulsed—because seeing people who may have protected her appear there with the faces of those who suffered made me want to vomit. But I took a deep breath and focused on what mattered: being present, closing the chapter, not feeding the spectacle.

The priest spoke neutral things, phrases that the church always has on the tip of its tongue: “let us pray for her soul,” “may she find peace.” I heard the words as if they came from afar. My hands were cold and, strange as it may sound, I wanted someone to hold my hand at that moment. Ethan held it and said nothing. It wasn't necessary. Actions spoke louder than words.

The family requested that the coffin remain closed. They said, in a calm voice, that the state of the body didn't allow for any other option. I saw shocked faces on their side, and I thought about how severe the physical violence of that fall must have been. I didn't feel pleasure imagining the suffering it caused in the end. I felt a mixture of relief—for not having to face her disfigured image—and an emptiness I can't explain. It was as if I had waited for a public confrontation and, when the end came, it came silent and dry.

In the middle of the ceremony, there were those who tried to greet me. People who wanted public consolation, journalists who wanted a speech, acquaintances who wanted to appear alongside the "couple who survived." I refused to be used as a symbol. I didn't give interviews. I didn't force myself to pose for photos. I don't want my pain to become a spectacle. I want it to become a whim of justice, and that's the end of it.

Some voices whispered that “divine justice” had been served. Others said that this solves nothing—that whoever ordered it, if there was one, can remain free and that the story may have other layers. I heard everything and didn't let myself be swayed. The truth is, I don't even know exactly what to feel at that moment. I wanted anger, I wanted revenge, I wanted the judge banging the gavel looking into her eyes. I got silence. I got a closed coffin.

Her family left soon after, in a hurry, their eyes refusing to meet ours. Some close friends didn't even show up. The press speculated, of course—talking of a “dramatic end,” a “company in mourning,” a “mystery that still needs to be solved.” And I stayed there, watching the earth cover the coffin, the muffled sound of the bird on the cemetery wall, and I felt small in the face of the absurdity of it all. Death is always small compared to life. And, at the same time, it is definitive.

I went home with a heavy body and the feeling that I had lost something I can't name. That person who stalked and threatened me. The woman who tried to destroy me, who turned our lives into hell—she died in water that washed her image away. I wanted to cry tears of pure relief, and ended up crying a silent cry, without sound, without spectacle. Ethan hugged me and kissed my forehead; Mom remained silent, as if she too didn't know what words to use.

During the wake and funeral, a prosecutor from the investigation appeared to talk to us. He said that the investigations were continuing; that there were still points to clarify: how she left the country, who helped her, if there were explicit orders for what happened in Santorini. We promised to cooperate with everything that was necessary. I felt like saying everything I knew, screaming, vomiting all the frustrations I carry. But I breathed, picked up my cell phone and sent the prosecutor what was missing—screenshots, audios, names. He received everything, made notes and promised diligence. This gave me a certain technical comfort—because, in the end, I don't want street revenge; I want accountability.

That night, at home, I couldn't sleep properly. My head was spinning with images: the bridge, the flash of light, the coffin being buried. As much as I wanted it, total peace didn't come. I've noticed that "ending" with someone doesn't bring the calm we imagine. It brings a kind of closure, yes, but it also exposes internal cracks: guilt, memories of what I lost before all this, fear that still persists. We survive, but the scars remain. And these scars accompany me when I try to drink coffee and when I weakly smile at the camera.

The day after the funeral, I went to the window to see the garden. Ethan came and sat beside me. We stayed there without speaking, watching the birds. He held my hand and said: "We went through this. We'll still go through more, but we went through something that nobody should have to go through." I agreed. Someone who did a lot of harm died, and that has an impact—psychological and practical—on our lives. What remains is to rebuild carefully.

Some close friends showed up in the following days: they brought food, talked, reminisced about good times that had nothing to do with the noise of this case. These little things reminded me that life isn't just courtroom drama and news. There's hot coffee and a dog on the couch and silly laughter at three in the afternoon. And I want that back. I want life to weigh less on my chest.

As the hours pass, I realize that "closing the coffin" also means closing possibilities. There won't be a public trial for her, there won't be the moment to see her face lose its mask in court. There will only be reports and documents and, perhaps, a lawsuit against those who helped. This is good and bad: good because it avoids spectacle; bad because it leaves a taste of incomplete justice.

Even so, I choose to cling to what I have: survival, Ethan's love, my mother's health, the promise that we will take care of ourselves. Today, perhaps for the first time in weeks, I managed to feel a glimmer of hope. Not of revenge—I lost that a long time ago—but of reconstruction. I'm slowly cleaning the house, donating things that remind me of bad nights, calmly answering messages. I'm still afraid. I still feel watched. But I don't live only for that anymore.

Deep down, I know that Meredite's burial doesn't put an end to everything. There are processes, responsibilities, names that still need to fall. And there's also a part of me that will take a long time to trust the world again. But, while the earth was placed on the coffin, something inside me was also buried: the fear that she will reach me again. This doesn't mean the wound is healed. It means that, for the first time in a long time, I can think of a tomorrow that isn't totally dominated by terror.

And, for now, that's enough.