Zoe Gonzales / Daily Nexus

To myself five months ago:

We made it to October. 

We made it to October, and there are entire days when we don’t think about it. And there are days when we do. Sometimes it hurts as much as the day we found out what happened, although usually it doesn’t, because grief has a funny way of bringing you around to peace where you never thought you’d find it again. 

I want to tell you: you’re strong. Right now you think you’re strong because you don’t have any other options – you’re working your dream internship in an incredible new city, and you’re about to step into a leadership opportunity that requires you to be at the helm of something much bigger than yourself. I know you: you have people to impress and new places to see and, simply put, letting grief overtake you isn’t part of your itinerary. Most days you feel like you’re on some weird autopilot mode where your mind and your body are operating independently of one another. But your resilience doesn’t come by default. You’re choosing to prioritize your present and your future, and I think that’s pretty badass. 

On a more serious note: I wish there were more of a social framework that tells you what to do when you lose a friend. I also wish there were more of a social framework for what you do when you find out on a random Sunday afternoon that someone you considered one of your best friends did something terrible, unspeakable, to an innocent person. 

(But also, I don’t, because that isn’t something that anyone should ever go through.)

But you manage. You find time to FaceTime L almost every day even though there’s a three-hour time difference, because the one thing you’re not going to do is let distance force the two of you into going through everything alone. And you go on gorgeous river hikes and wander art museums and in spite of everything, you believe in good in the world. 

I read somewhere that, when you recall a memory, you’re not recalling the event in question itself, but rather the last time you remembered it. That checks out, I think. You’re dreading the idea of all our good college memories being tainted, but we remember his presence a little less each time we recall the party in March, or the late nights spent on the second floor of the library. First the colors fade, then the definition pixelates, then that indeterminate person-shaped figure starts peeling away, slowly, at the edges. And after that I hope that there will be nothing left, but we’re not there yet. 

We’re not there yet, but the forecast looks optimistic.

Love,

E