Not coming back

Two weeks ago, I killed myself. It felt good. At the time, at least, I had a comfortable sense of righteousness about the whole affair. I'm not coming back, and you'll all see what you've done to me, I thought as I pulled the trigger. I'll show you.
Of course, I absolutely meant it at the time. And I don't regret it. Not at all. But it's the damnest thing - I keep peeking back. I have to see how they've remembered me, you know. I hang around, scanning conversations for mentions of myself. Some message, some plea. We miss you! You meant so much to us. Well, I have heard snippets. One or two moments of sentimentality. But it just doesn't seem enough. Surely they're still in shock. I have to wait a little longer, see what becomes of this. Perhaps there will be more. Who knows? Perhaps, without me, things will simply begin to crumble. But I have to give it time; and wait and see what happens.
I dearly long to prompt someone: Hey, guys - remember Miriam? I'd say. Wasn't she funny! Didn't she have a brilliant mind? Wasn't it sad...
But they have to see for themselves, now. And after all, I've severed my vocal chords. I remain silent. I have no choice. But I have to stay, I have to wait and watch and hold my lifeless breath - til they realise how much they care.

Funny, I've forgotten... why was it that I left?