I think I was born wishing to be normal. I remember the day you came kicking and screaming into my quiet life like it was just yesterday. I was eighteen years old; you were also eighteen years old, so it might as well have been just yesterday - see where this gets complicated?
I forgot to tell you that nothing in our lives could ever be normal. We were both raised on ambiguity; the blurred lines between where your father became my father were always slightly out of my reach.
I spent months thinking about meeting you. When I sat on the sidewalk that cold day in January I realized this was about more than just me - this was about us now, and all these contingencies, and the year 1997, and what seems like the immeasurable distance between two boroughs. This is about your last name, which used to be my last name and about all these bright white skeletons left in the closet.
I told everyone you were the answer; like that blinding light at the end of the tunnel that has been my lonely existence - I thought I saw some sort of salvation. I was only half right.
They found you face down and I found out on Facebook. As I text your best friend I start crying. I want to say my story began when yours ended but all I manage to say is fuck. As in fuck God with a capital G or whatever supposed higher power decides mortality. I say fuck the universe who decided to take a shit on our lives and fuck that memorial that I wasn’t invited to.
I have a lot more to say but for now I am waiting for some sort of sign. One that shows you’re okay and that hopefully I will be too.