I’m eating mashed potatoes out a Tupperware bowl and my heart hurts.

I remember this one time when we were real little, like not even four yet, because it was during winter and both our birthday’s are in the spring, and we were sitting outside on a blanket, during one of those rare cold spells that south Florida gets. Your hair all had to be chopped off because I had put gum in it, all the way at the roots, and you looked like one of those kids with cancer they show in those commercials for St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital. I told you that you looked funny and you kicked my in the shin, and I fell over, bawling my little eyes out. Then you gave me a hug because you felt sorry that you kicked me.

I miss those days, especially the ones after we’d both realized we felt the same way about each other, the summer before we started high school. I miss holding hands with you, because I had the tiniest hands in the world and you had the biggest, but for some reason they felt right together. I miss that one birthday where you stole your dad’s BMW and drove over to my house at midnight to take me to the beach, even though we lived miles away from it. Your eyes were wide whenever a cop car passed by, convinced they were all on the lookout for you. That was the night that you first kissed me, and it confused me to no end, because I knew how I felt about you but I thought those feelings weren’t reciprocated, so I backed off. I remember you asked me why I hadn’t been talking to you as much, and it made me ache because I truly wanted to tell you the truth, but the words stuck in my mouth and I made a lame excuse about schoolwork, even though you had the same amount as I did.

I remember when we first had sex. It wasn’t some perfect, passionate moment, because neither of us knew what the hell we were doing, and in the middle of it, I laughed because you were making the weirdest faces and you laughed because you were nervous, but it was still nice. I’m glad that I did it with you, because there was no other person in the world that I loved more, not even my parents, not even my dogs, not even my writing, and that meant EVERYTHING to me. You always wanted to read what I was writing, and I usually wouldn’t let you because it was about you.

I remember the night of the accident, when we went to that dumb party that Twinky was having and you got drunk off your ass and made out with another girl, and I tried to kill you, but Cara managed to pull me off and I ran down the beach, screaming and crying. You never sobered up, because she told me that you went after me, which was why you crashed, which was why my entire world was torn apart. You were stupid and dumb and reckless, as usual, trying to apologize to me, trying to get me back. Even if you had made it to the beach, though, I wouldn’t have forgiven you. I didn’t care how drunk you were. I wouldn’t have given you a second chance, so there’s no use asking ‘what if’.

I wish you were here sometimes, though, when I get lonely and depressed. It’s been six months, but it feels like a lot longer. The memories of us are still in my brain, but they’re fading fast, and that scares me. I don’t want to forget you, never, but I’m still mad at you. There’s no use being mad at a dead person, because you can’t even tell them how you feel, how much you want to punch them in the face.

I take another bite of mashed potatoes and my heart hurts a little bit less.