The last time I heard your voice was the last time I had that phone. When your name popped up, it was like a fire ravaging through my chest: I was just happy you wanted to talk to me. That it wasn’t just the one who kept asking, “what’s the answer?”, but someone who genuinely thought I had something useful to say. Some days it was the only name on my phone that would get me through to the next day. You were the only girl who believed Warheads were the only legit sour candy on earth, or The Andalite Chronicles being the pinnacle of the Animorphs series. You let me be there for you, even though you kept pretending you needed no one. When someone took a swing at me, you swung back, hard. But there was always a feeling that California just wasn’t home. Writing was your dream. And I kept sending you letters when I couldn’t get a hold of you any longer. Your voice still resonates with me as I remember what’s missing now, after all these years. I keep wanting to tell you what I illegibly wrote. Maybe someday you’ll figure it out.