I was young. I was new. I was out of place. I was alone. I was an outcast at a school that I didn’t want to go to. I was a new acquaintance of people I had no affinity towards.

I heard about you from other people. You were everyone’s friend. You were loud. You stole food from the snack bar when no one was paying attention. You were feisty. You hid the boys’ backpacks in trashcans. You were daring. You were everything I wasn’t. You were everything I dreamed about being.

I didn’t meet you until two years later. But the long suspense did not lead to disappointment. We fell in line quickly. Though slight opposites, we bounced ideas, dreams, and grade school gossip off each other every chance we got. I started talking like you, dressing like you, and acting like you. I didn’t care if people noticed this; I loved you, and hoped with my whole heart that you loved me too.

We began to be defined by and with each other. We felt a lingering emptiness when we were apart. We developed from ponytail-sporting, short-clad tomboys to young girls. We traded our grass-stained clothes for poorly applied mascara. We traded our girl drama for boy drama. We traded our innocent problems for grown up concerns. We laughed, we teased, we cried, we sang, we prayed, and we never left each other’s side.

We saw right through everyone’s confident exterior that protected their insecure need for belonging. We opted out of this immature existence. We took honors classes. We did our homework. We got good grades. We read the Bible. We walked the track alone at lunch and mused about life and its meaning.

I was still so painfully shy. I would write you notes anytime I had to tell you something serious. Always the more mature one, you were compliant and wrote back even though it seemed inorganic and awkward.

“My dad has a girlfriend, and my mom found out. They’re getting a divorce.”

This was a note I wrote you in Mrs. Anderson’s English class. I was devastated. You were a good friend. Our parents infuriated us and we felt misunderstood. You ran to my house crying, and we held each other until we felt safe and strong enough to let go.

We grew up even more. We traded worship services and books for parties and alcohol. (At some point we both wised up and ashamedly traded them back.) We saw blind significance in now insignificant things. We kissed boys. We got in fights. We were jealous. We were too zoomed in. Too focused on our problems, our triumphs, our flaws, our lives. It was as if we were under a microscope and we were oblivious to the rest of the world. We didn’t find out until later that there is so much more to treasure and explore.

And then the summer to end all summers began. It was as if we were dying. Everything held sentiment. Everything was the last something or other. The last soccer game. The last day of high school. The last beach day. The last trip to Lavender Lounge. The last surf. The last night at church. We were reminiscent and reflective. You left for Texas on the morning of August fourth. You were headed towards great things but I still had a month at home. We didn’t know what to say and just held each other tight. After you drove off, all the girls slowly got in their cars and pulled away. I couldn’t breathe. No matter how hard I tried to stop, my eyes swam with the memories of our life together and my fear for what our life would be like apart. But this too passed.

I would send you video updates as I walked uphill to work. We laughed as we navigated through the early weeks of college. Though separated by nearly 1,000 miles, we were closer than ever. I saw parts of you in my new friends. I thought of you when I went to church and when I bought Girl Scout cookies. We continued to share stories about boys we liked, parties we went to, and things we experienced. I saw you in the flaming leaves that danced around my ankles. They had spirit. And I missed your spirit. I saw you in the sunsets and the stars. I still feel you with me at all times and I am so captivated by your encompassing presence.

Today I remembered a day where we headed out early. We packed the boards in my car and it was just the two of us. We got to the beach and struggled into our wet suits. It was warm and the waves were playful. The water buzzed with people talking about the conditions of the swell and about their plans for later. We paddled out and took our place along side them. There were groms and seasoned pros, girls and boys. They were young and old. I remember thinking to myself that I loved where we floated amongst them. And that this is what life is like, the diversity of our race bound together with a common love and interest. And I remember my contentment as I looked over at you.

I said, “I love you, my Sweet Caroline,” and you smiled because you knew.