The cold porcelain toilet pressed up against my thigh as I melted into the wall next to me letting my tears soak into my shirt. I texted my friend knowing she was never going to respond. All memories of details fade into a blur of hasty vision blotched with tears and the tremble of fingers barely wanting to press into the screen of the phone. I can’t remember what exactly I said or what was even around me but I can relive that feeling. I cried so much that it hurt to keep my eyes open. I miss my friend. Every day a part of me lives with her. 

I remember growing up with her. Side by side we ventured off to different high schools, but still stayed in touch keeping the friendship we had close to our chests. I went to an academic-focused school and she went to one known for its vibrant party scene. We both lived in San Francisco and on the few days I did go out miraculously we’d always coincidentally end up in social situations together. It was as if fate had guided us to bump into each other at every party. Her presence was angelic, pure, and tranquil. A glistening smile that shined in the dark crowd of unfamiliar faces, often holding a red solo cup. A loving embrace that was always a hug that felt too long and too hard. A true friend.  

The last time I spoke to her face to face, I remember her talking about returning from rehab. She had been in rehab twice now and was just released. Her parents were in favor of abstinence rather than moderation but she never really had a problem with alcohol. She had epilepsy and any alcohol counteracted her medication.  

It was the fourth of July. Outside on the deck of a mutual friend’s house, we crowded a small fire that pungently smelled of propane. Occasionally the crackle and boom of fireworks above would cut into the conversation and glaze us in a blanket of colors. I remember being on the couch with her in that circle with our friends, everyone but me holding a beer. Once she sat down across from me, I saw the shimmer of the same beer can everyone else was holding secured in her left hand. Her fingers nonchalantly wrapped around the curves of the can and I glared at her, both silently knowing what it meant. Towards the end of the night when our steins no longer runneth over and the delight of the fireworks subsided, people said their Irish goodbyes until it was just me and my friend left on the couch, both waiting for our respective friends to finish god knows what in the bedroom. Tranquil indie music filled the air between her and me so as not to have it filled with anything else, and she was already too prepared to listen. We sat and returned right back to the moment where we left off, just as we always did. I said to her, “I missed you.” “Me too” she responded, still holding onto an empty beer can.  

“Aren’t you not supposed to drink, what happened to that?” 

 “I’m fine, Alex. It’s not going to do anything.”  

“I know, I just care about you is all. Just stay safe.”  

“I will, I promise” 

We locked pinkies, the most sacred of our promises, and nodded to each other, promising to be there for one another as we always have. 

That day I texted her was the last time I got to tell her how much I love her, how much her company and kindness meant to me. All the seemingly mundane moments with her redefined what meaningful ones meant. She never responded, how could she?  

She died that day. I texted her knowing I would never hear back, I just hoped she could read it somehow. Maybe it was a plea to the gods to bring her back, and take back what they had deemed fate. Or maybe it was a helpless cry for one last chance to embrace her, to feel the loving touch of a dear friend who left without saying goodbye. I still feel no closure, no resolution to her story. It was as if an author stopped writing, right before the climax. A hole fills a part of me and I’m no longer sure what it's from. Sometimes I see her smile and can feel her hand in mine and a little part of me sinks into that dark crowd of unfamiliar faces, where everything about her feels real and livid but this time everything else is an unattainable fantasy. The crowd caves in and the potent feelings of love and longing surface leaving a visceral distaste in my mouth, a flavor I can’t describe. I love her and miss her and that is the only thing I'm sure of. I’m sure that those hugs were never too tight and never too long, that she was never too prepared to listen, and that she is always a true friend.