You know you're my best friend, right? You have been for two and a half years. Ever since we met at church (but started hanging on that European trip), we've been the same person in mind, body, and spirit. Well, not exactly, but that's what people keep saying. Because we finish each other's sentences. Because we can feel what the other is feeling without even asking. Because we wear the same size pants. And, okay, maybe my feet are slightly bigger than yours, but we once proved that I can wear your shoes. I walked a mile in them, in fact. A mile on the beach at sunset, after we looked at the butterflies in the park. Wasn't that beautiful?

Hey, you.

Remember when I asked you to senior prom? It was kind of funny because everyone thought I had this awesome boyfriend and I had to keep telling them, no, we're not dating. We're cooler than that. And remember how the people we were going with made us an hour and a half late, changed our dinner plans so we had to eat at the nasty old-people restaurant with each dish costing minimum $100 (and how we were so clever for ordering and splitting the $20 salad), and made us search all over downtown for them because they'd gotten lost, and then they couldn't find my house afterwards? At the time it was awful, but it's sure as hell amusing in retrospect. Isn't it funny how things seem to work out like that? And it was always okay because we were dealing with it together, and we got through it together. But just barely. (Next time, we're going by ourselves!)

Hey, you.

Remember the night you told me you were gay? You called me up from college (how exciting for me, the guy I had a crush on calling me, the lowly high- school junior, long-distance from school!) and we talked about anything and everything for two hours, until I had to eat dinner and called you back afterwards. Then, just as I was about to get off to go to bed, you said there was something you had to tell me. Then. just like that, you took a deep breath (okay, several) and gave me the news that would make my heart stop and break into a thousand pieces. I'm really sorry. I'm really sorry, you kept telling me, as tears slid down my cheeks like rain and I tried to say something other than "oh." I knew it had been coming. I'd had a dream about it the previous week. And I could tell by the way you dressed sometimes, sometimes by what kind of music you liked to listen to, sometimes just by being yourself. So it was a shock but not a surprise. Yet through it all, I tried to reassure myself that nothing was going to change between us. You were still my best friend, regardless of which gender you liked to kiss. And that was okay. We made it through that one too, although I admit I didn't stop crying for an entire week.

Hey, you.

Remember when you turned 20? I was so excited about planning your surprise birthday party. It was gonna be the best ever. I imported your favorite drink from Europe (remember that trip two years ago? Yes, I know you did) and organized a huge treasure hunt all around your house leading up to it and us by the pool outside. It was so hard to get anyone else to help me, because they weren't as into it as I was. I wondered if that was okay. Was I right in working so hard for just one little birthday surprise? But it seemed to work. It went over well, and the party was a blast. I was so afraid that someone would leak something out (and it turns out your mom did) and I tried so hard to make you believe I had to baby-sit rather than spend your birthday with you. But you knew all along that I was hiding something and I would never have scheduled a babysitting job on my best friend's 20th birthday.

Hey, you.

We used to spend four hours at a time on the phone. We did that countless nights. Wasn't that wonderful? And we talked constantly, regardless of what we were supposed to be doing. Then, one night, I noticed you weren't speaking to me. And when I asked you about it, you shrugged and turned away. I didn't know what had gone wrong, and I blamed myself for it. I ran out to my car and got in, thinking of running my front bumper into a guardrail on the side of the road. Instead, I drove shakily home and called your mom.

"What's wrong with him? Why isn't he speaking to me?"

And it took a week, but we figured it out. And we were back to normal.

Hey, you.

School started this fall. My first year of college, your first year at this particular school. The same school. And for a while, we were each afraid the other was making countless new friends and would leave the other behind. So we hung out more and more, so that wouldn't happen. Then you got kind of drunk and kissed some girls. And I wondered why it hadn't been me. My feelings were hurt but I tried not to let it show, until I started writing about it in a secret place only you knew about. And you found out, and tried to explain it to me, but it was hard to hear. And then one day you were cold and distant, and we started fighting again. I cried nonstop for that week and a half. I wanted to kill myself again. My world as I knew it was over. Yet somehow, we made up after a while and, slowly, shakily, things went back to normal. And it was the best feeling because we'd made it through again when it seemed like things were irreparable.

Hey, you.

I haven't spoken to you in two and a half months. That's a lie. I've spoken to you through emails and we were "friends" for about three days. And we were making progress. But you started hanging out with people who had begun to exclude me for an unknown (and still unknown) reason. And you got closer and closer with other people. And you decided you didn't want me to live with you next year, as was the plan for as long as we'd both decided to attend this university. And you said you needed time and space away from me for a while to think. You told me to make other friends, seemingly forgetting that I was at least as shy as you. And the friends I made at university weren't nearly as good as you were. I talked to them but felt empty, because there was a big hole in my heart that nobody else could fill. Nobody else made me feel the way you did. Every acquaintance I met in school was a tiny grain of sand in the abyss that you'd left when you told me not to speak to you until I was all better. It was my fault; I know it was all my fault. I hated myself for hurting you. I hated everything about myself that made you upset, and I wanted to kill myself. I wrote the suicide note. And I tried to figure out how I would do it.

Hey, you.

I heard you were making out with a guy we both know. But I didn't hear it from you, like I'd hoped. My sister overheard someone blabbing it all around church. And it struck me like a needle into that hole you left. I wanted to be happy for you, but knowing that you'd kept it from me hurt me so much I could barely stand it. I sat through the movie with my sister, hating myself, wishing I could die and not have to deal with any of this. And I didn't want to lose my temper at you, but I did, and I'm so sorry I could just die with guilt. I wanted to make you understand that seeing my best friend get date after date after kiss after phone number while I sat on the sidelines waiting for my first kiss or some guy to ask me out for the first time hurt me something unimaginable. My heart was broken in two, and I tried to apologize and get things the way they used to be, but you didn't seem interested. And I wondered if I'd lost you for good.

Hey, you.

You were the best thing that ever happened to me.

Hey. I miss you.