When you think of a loved one that’s no longer with you, chances are, it’s bittersweet: You’ll think of them fondly, even if it’s tinged with sadness.In my case, when I think of LJ, my best guy friend of two years, who committed suicide four years ago, I skip past the sadness and go straight to anger.It wasn’t always like this: When I first learned that LJ had taken his own life, the word "devastated" couldn’t quite encompass my grief. It was as if someone had suddenly stuck their finger on the "pause" button of my life, while everyone else’s was still on "play".A million thoughts raced through my mind that November morning, after hearing the news, but the one I couldn’t wrap my head around was 'why'? He was happy – or at least he seemed to be; what I didn't know was that LJ had been secretly struggling with depression since school. Or that each day marked a fresh new battle until he decided that battling it just wasn’t worth it anymore.And I didn’t know until later that how LJ died certainly wasn’t an isolated incident: Someone’s friend, brother, boyfriend or husband takes their life every two hours in the UK. That's equivalent to 12 men every day, according to male suicide prevention charity, CALM.Worse still, I couldn’t quite shift the niggling guilt that I'd had some part to play in all this. I was the closest to LJ, I’d spent more time with him than anyone elsein the months and weeks before he died. Surely I should have noticed something? I couldn’t help but feel that he might still be alive if I had, something that still plagues me today. So I started spending countless hours hunting for clues, replaying old conversations in case anything stuck out. At my most desperate, I resorted to trawling through every single Facebook photo he had, desperately scanning his face for any tell-tale signs.It didn’t help that Sheffield, the city I’d met him in, was seeped with memories of him. Any bus journey I took, I’d crane my neck looking for him, half-expecting to see him strolling down the street, before being hit with a tsunami of sadness when I realised it wasn’t him. On days like that, I half-wished he’d taken me with him, but pretty soon, the guilt started giving way for an unrelenting anger towards him and it’s stayed there ever since.It’s hard to shake off just how angry I am that LJ has joined the others - been reduced to a nameless, faceless stat rather than the LJ I knew, the one who I’d relive every drunken antic with the morning after the night before; the one who’d bail me out in an emergency come 4 am; the one who refused to make up excuses as to why some guy didn’t call.I’m also angry that our old friendship group fell apart after we took turns blaming each other. There were no direct accusations but we all silently felt that one person or another was responsible. After a while, I couldn’t bear to be in the same room as them. We were free to walk around or make plans for the future whilst LJ was stuck in a coffin. Their Instagram accounts only serve as a stark reminder of all the things he’ll never get a chance to experience; graduating, his first job, even getting engaged. It felt wrong somehow that everyone got to move on when he’s stuck in time and never made it past 21. Why did they get to have a future? Why did I?