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The Facebook notification on my phone this afternoon let me know that you ‘liked’ a picture I was tagged in… from 2009. What the fuck is that about? I haven’t seen you since that picture was taken, in a bustling coffee shop, each of us wearing fantastic scarfs and cheesy faux-shocked grins. Your hair was flawless, always in the right place, at the right time. It was January, so my hair was frizzy and bleach-blonde, in-between dye jobs. What color was next? All blue? That January might have been the point in our timeline when you stopped knowing those details. The same time you stopped driving through the desert in the middle of the night from one tiny city to another because you wanted to watch reruns of Project Runway with me. The exact same period when you couldn’t be bothered to answer my calls; I just needed you to keep breathing on the other end so I could stop being alone.

The last comment on the picture was in late 2009. Five years ago. It was from a girl we graduated with, Beth, who wrote “part of me wants to smile, and the other part wants to get in my car and come see you.” That was right after you dropped the k from the end of your name—making you appear infinitely cooler to your new friends— but before I felt the same as Beth. Before it was surprising to see you acknowledging that we were friends, (not just) on Facebook.