A letter you can’t read

I remember the first time we met. Jake and I interviewed you in the little conference room. Our backs were facing the floor to ceiling windows, so you were lit up by the foggy, diffuse light behind us. I remember thinking you looked so much like Heather, my closest childhood friend and the dearest person on earth to me. Your skin was so pale, glowing even, and your eyeshadow was incredible. You had those eyelids I’ve always wanted, no hood, just a perfect convex form. You were nervous, clearly, talking so fast and we were soon giggling like idiots. I loved you immediately.

We ended up hiring someone else for that job — but after a few weeks we called you and offered you a job anyway. I was thrilled. You sat two seats away from me, on the other side of Nikita, in our little pod of idiots. I loved our pod.

I was in awe of you. Your style, your sense of humor, your bravery - the kind of person who was low-key terrified of everything but showed up every day beaming with dorky energy. You’d yell at the outsourcers so Nik and I didn’t have to. You made everyone feel comfortable and able to do their best, and your enthusiasm for titanic was so admirable and mysterious to me that it still brings a jolt of happiness to my heart every time I think about it. You were so fucking funny. I am glad I had a chance to tell you all this. But I wish I could again.

I remember hours and hours spent giggling over slack, complaining about everyone, going for walks to sephora or just wandering around the financial district when we needed a break. You taught me how to do pale-girly makeup. You were always, always there when I needed you.

I remember so clearly when you were complaining about your stomach. I suggested beano. I remember you texting with you while you went in for testing, and the agonizing wait for results. How being vaguely worried about Crohn’s morphed into a deep and sinister dread when they found the mass. And the biopsy results, with the worst possible news. How I am the type of person who knows that this can happen to anyone, anytime, because it does, so we talked about that a lot.

During the pandemic, you were my lifeline. When my marriage was gone, my father, my home, and my job, you were there. When N had to dissapear and J vanished, you were the person who understood the impact better than anyone. I felt held and seen by you and never really alone because I knew I could always talk to you. But it isn’t because of your utility to me that I loved you. You were just one of my people.

I wanted us to be friends forever. I’ve heard so much about survivor’s guilt and I never really understood it but I do now. We were the same, but you died, and I am still here. You made it such a long time. You really really did not want to die. It terrifies me. I miss you. I am so glad we met.