Stephanie Elkin
Jul 25, 2017 · 2 min read

I’m somewhere in Wisconsin on our first day off in three weeks. I’m exhausted, but I’m good. It’s a beautiful life, and I wish you were here to see it.

Grief changes over time. After five years, it’s no longer a raw wound that reopens every time that habits and expectations remind me that she’s gone. It’s more of a dull ache that throbs every time I wish that she was still here.

The worst are the milestones that should be nothing but joyous occasions, except that I can’t shake the feeling that she should be celebrating too. I graduated college, and I wonder what she would’ve majored in. As I start my career in music, I remember that she dreamed of one as well. Birthdays are a reminder that I am older than my best friend will ever be. That’s a hard thing to feel. And as I keep growing, there will be more of these moments, all with that ache of sadness that I now accept as part of the package.

But I also feel lucky. It’s a strange word to use here, but I suppose gratitude is better than grief. I am lucky that the universe allowed us to meet, although I wish it was earlier. I am lucky that she chose to spend her time with me, both before and after she knew it would be cut short. I am so, so lucky to have had her as my best friend.

I try to cling to every detail, every memory, but time is kryptonite to even the most heroic of intentions. We had the exact same color eyes. I never thought much of mine before, but now they’re my favorite feature. Her laugh was infectious; her smile was warm. She made everyone feel like the most important person in the world. She was just so good. I know I’ll never meet anyone else like her. I know I’ll miss her for the rest of my life.

I don’t fully believe in heaven or hell as a rigid dichotomy that takes all the color out of the character spectrum and turns it black and white. But I do believe in Something. There has to be Something. I like to think she’s watching from there, because I need her to be with me, even if I can’t be with her. I need there to be more to her story, even if it’s in a language that I cannot read, in pictures I cannot see. And I think that’s a big part of faith — sometimes we believe in things simply because we need them to be true.

I miss you, Chloe. You are so loved.

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