I don’t remember what I had for breakfast the morning of April 16, 2007. I couldn’t tell you what I was wearing or what I did before class or anything that happened the weekend before. Everything before disappeared.

The first thing I remember was walking to my 9 a.m. class in Litton Reeves Hall. It was cold. Up the hill from my apartment and rounding the corner next to Cassell Coliseum and everything was business as usual.

When I passed by a dorm on campus, I saw several cop cars parked on the grass right next to the door. There was a girl standing next to the door, crying all by herself. I didn’t think anything of it. That was the moment everything changed though. In hindsight, I wish I had said something to her, just a comforting word or a hand on her shoulder—just something that would have spread goodness that day.

Our class had a window adjacent to the street. It was a class I didn’t really care about but was required to take. I don’t remember what we were covering, but I do remember hearing sirens going by outside the window frequently—more sirens than normal, more than just a fire alarm going off. An EMT in class got up and ran out in the middle of lecture after her pager went off several times. That’s when I knew something was very wrong.

It was a short walk down that same road the sirens were on to get to my next class at 10 a.m. I didn’t see anything wrong that matched the feeling in my stomach. I didn’t see anything; no one was driving or walking around at all. At the front door of the building I had class in was a simple sign: “Gunman in Burruss Hall. Stay indoors and away from windows.”

Waiting outside the classroom for my biotechnology class, people were starting to piece together information and rumor that each of them had: A couple people had been killed on the other side of the drill field and the campus was going into lockdown.

There was a guy who sat behind me in that class named Ryan Clark, little more than an acquaintance of mine, but a friend of a friend. He wasn’t there, and we joked that he picked a good day to sleep in. When a couple more people showed up and said the campus was going into lockdown, we didn’t wait around for our professor to show up. I wasn’t going to be locked inside this building. We ran across the street to the parking lot and drove home.

I don’t know if the professor ever showed up or if she was stuck somewhere else, but I know Ryan didn’t.

The next several hours disappeared for me. I sat watching the news. I learned everything the same way everyone else did.

“We have reports coming out of Blacksburg, Virginia of a shooting at Virginia Tech.”

“We have reports of three dead.”

“We have reports of four people killed now.”

“Five dead.”

“Six.”

Then I remember seeing the broadcaster go pale. He stuttered for a second.

“It’s just coming out now, we have at least 30 people killed at Virginia Tech.”

How does a number go from six to 30 that quickly?

For a few days, we became the biggest news story in the world. I got in touch with people to let them know I was OK. All the while, I could still hear the warning sirens outside.

“Get indoors. Stay away from windows. Gunman on campus.” Repeated over and over.

I lived in Blacksburg for years and never even knew those sirens were there. I still don’t know where they are.

It was during this time I found out that Ryan had been killed. He was an RA in the dorm I passed and was one of the first two victims. The cop cars and the girl crying were for him. A week later, I would write a card to Ryan’s family in class. All I could say was, “I wish I would have turned around more.”

That night, I sat down at my desk before bed. I had not cried at all that day. Sitting there, I wept harder than I had before or since. I wept because everything was wrong. These things only happen on the news. They don’t happen in real life, and they certainly don’t happen to you and your community. I wept because I couldn’t do anything else. Everything was wrong, and I couldn’t do anything but sit there and cry.

Afterwards, the news media descended on our small town. President Bush came to offer support. Banners, vigils and memorials appeared all over campus. Schools from across the nation and around the world sent letters and posters and all number of displays of solidarity.

The most astonishing feeling in the days and weeks after the shooting was not anger or fear, but love. It was a hurt and damaged love, and a love that many years and many hugs would not be completely mend, but it was love nonetheless.

So I wanted to share my story because I love you, whoever is reading it. I love you because you’re alive, and you have the chance to do or be anything.

Four years later, life moves on, but the love lingers, and some things and people shouldn’t be forgotten. I urge you to live your life every day for the 32 people that don’t get to.