I was ten when I met her. Back then, our biggest problem was finding enough room in our shared locker for both of our books, bags, and boots. Hers were always so muddy when they brushed up against mine, it made me want to push her. This changed when I saw her read in the library, hidden amongst shelves. Her eyes looked lost when she read; it made me want to find her.

I was 12 when I saw her strength. She was more brash than the others- loud like banging pots and pans. I was wind chimes without even a breeze. When other kids were mean she’d threaten to hit them, and always followed through. I didn’t understand why she was so angry. I didn’t care. I liked the way her rage burned.

I was 13 when I started putting her name in hearts. We would sit in the library with our other friends. The corner table was our trading post. Hands would sneak candy underneath while lips slipped secrets above. I could never decide which one was sweeter. She always had to go home first. After she would leave, the rest of us played question games. They’d ask who had the nicest eyes, or the nicest lips, the nicest shoulders-hands-heart-soul and even butt when the giggling would allow it. My answer was always her. It still is.

I was 14 when I thought we were going to get married. We spent every night clinging to consciousness for one more sliver of conversation, even if it was just a “you still awake?” I couldn’t imagine life without her, so I stopped trying. I let my ‘I’ became a ‘we’ and I never wanted to be just one letter again. I wanted to live in her sweaters and her hands. Both kept me warm. Both kept me safe. Both felt like they were mine anyway.

I was 15 when she broke my heart. She started dating another girl who was wind chimes on the windiest day. I learned that you can’t give up your ‘I’. I learned if you do, then when your ‘we’ is gone, so are you. I got the pieces of myself back and realized that I needed to keep them. I didn’t need to give them away to love someone. She had never asked me to anyway.

I was 17 when I fell in love with her. We had bounced around respective girlfriends and flings and finally landed on each other. She gave me a bag of peach rings, and we kissed in her car. Our noses squished together and I laughed in her mouth. It was awkward, but in the moment I was willing to swear off dignity permanently. I said “I love you” more times than a greeting card aisle on Valentine’s Day and she never got annoyed. She just said, “Say it again.”

I was 11 when I was diagnosed with depression.

She was 16.

I was 18 when she killed herself. I wish I didn’t understand. I didn’t wish she’d been strong - I wished I was strong enough to believe that strength could have saved her. I wished we could have gotten married. I wished she wasn’t still my every answer to every question. I wished things were easy like the first time she broke my heart, I wished I didn’t still love her. I wished our biggest problems would have always been space in our lockers, not the space in our heads, or the space in our chests, or the space in our bed now that she’s gone. It looks so empty. It makes me want to find her.