(Honestly upon writing the title with the littliest effort possible I could help but like it. - Ego perhaps? - anyway, perhaps it's worse that I liked it because I thought it could stand for "Sexualy Transmitted Hatred". Anyway.)

On a blockbuster, moving movie capable of making even the snobbiest hipster shed secretly like it with teary eyes, the following would happen:

She comes out of the health services building (not quite a hospital yet, but too big to bea  clinic). She's devastated and takesa sit at the entrance, crying and not caring about how she looks to whom (but ocnveniently looking good enough for a a movie-actress' standards). a hot and wonderful stranger would be unable to walk by like all those not-well known extras did and stop to comfort her. Eventually a wonderful story of love and self-discovery would develop.

In reality, a could-be-considered devastated, nineteen year-old young woman walked out of a not-a-hospital-but-not-quite-a-clinic building, but she was not crying, and no stranger made a movie come to life.
Sitting at the entrance wall's dent she acidly went over the situation again:

Alejandro was dead. He had died of a condition that all medical-services oficers  had considered not severe enough for close medical observation until it was so severe that it could not be cured even if he was put under severe medical observation (which he was, in time for a nurse to make a knowledgeable-person's remark about how he should ahve seeked medical attention upon the first few symptoms and a few desk-occupying people to offer tehir most sincere condolences to the relatives of someone they had never spared a glance at (relatives they had never spared a glance at either).