One of your self professed favorite pastimes was stalking yourself on social media. Like most people, I think. I know that when I get bored of scrolling through my timeline on Facebook of my usual suspects’ pictures and memes and links, I go to my own page and look at my own pictures and memes and links. It’s very nostalgic and sometimes a little cringey, but I do it all the time. I’m assuming you found the same.

Now that you’re gone, I’ve taken on the task for you, stalking you on social media. Can you stalk someone after they’re gone? I don’t know. I looked at your Instagram for the thousandth time today. This time, I looked at the comments. So many business pages reaching out for brand deals and modeling opportunities. You are so beautiful. You were so beautiful. And your Instagram served as a resume for your appearance. A lot of thirsty individuals were there as well, quenching your desire for flattery but also unsettling at the same time. So many strangers.

But everyone who commented on your posts are strangers to me. What struck me most is how little I knew you at the end. The people you spoke to, the places you went, the job you worked – who was I to you anymore? Nothing. I was nothing. Seeing the people you called friends comment on your pictures, expressing sorrow at your loss and gratitude for having known you made me feel so tiny and insignificant.

It’s weird to be mourning the loss of a friendship that died so long ago, but also mourning the person who that friendship was with who left so recently. And mourning the loss of any reason for the death of that friendship. I can speculate forever and still never know for sure, but I do know that I wish that I could fix it.

I’ll never be able to fix it. And that’s the real tragedy of your loss.