Nighttime. This is always when I think about you the most. We would stay up so late, talking about anything and everything until I was forced to accept the need for sleep. Even though somehow I knew I wasn’t the only one you sent late night messages too, I felt like it was only us up late, the rest of the room dark, only lit by the bright screens of our computers, typing, typing, typing. Like everything and everyone else was asleep and we could say anything we wanted and no one would know. Not that we talked about anything important. But it was special to me and I miss our midnight conversations.

I read an email you sent to a treatment facility today. It made my heart hurt to hear that your life was stressful, exhausting, and painful because of your addiction to heroin. It made me angry that there wasn’t anyone willing to accept you into a treatment program. It made me even sadder that the email you wrote sounded so you, so normal, like you never changed. I know you must have changed, though. We all do. And I haven’t spoken to you in four years. But, I need to hold on to the you that I know.

From reading comments online, it looks like you started going by your middle name. I see people who I have never heard of call you by that name in comments missing you, loving you, wondering why you had to leave so soon. I don’t know why you chose to stop going by your first name, but I liked to see that you signed your name to this email as Kelsey. This other name, this other identity, I like to think of as a separate entity. Someone that I don’t know. Someone I don’t have to mourn. Someone that doesn’t matter.

But I know you’re one in the same. And you’re gone. And I’ll never have you back.