When I think of you, I think of blue flannels and acoustic guitar strings, the smell of cigarettes and metal, the first day of August, long study sessions, the seventies, roses, earl grey tea, greek yogurt, waking early and sleeping late, the view on top of the Blue Ridge Mountains, black coffee, callouses, long walks by yourself at the first hour of dawn, parking tickets, the smell after it rains, Bach's Cello Suite, Polaroid photos, the indifference in your voice the last time we spoke.

My first two years of college were charted by the hours I spent studying and taking long drives with you. I was in a new city, a new apartment, and no one to talk to. There was such peace and excitement in the days we spent together that I wanted to trust, and forgot I trusted, that we would always be friends. When even that changed, I needed a routine to anchor myself to this strange life. In the morning, I'd wake up early to go to the gym, walk along Lake Herrick, or get breakfast at Panera Bread. After class, I'd stay on campus and get my homework done where there are no distractions and the campus scene to remind me I was here to get good grades. If I wasn't doing school work, I was reading in the Founder's Garden. If I started to feel sad, I'd write how I felt in my journal. Writing helps because it makes me feel soothed by what I wrote, even though there's nothing to feel soothed by, much less my own words. At the end of the day, I'd write down why that day was a good one: I got out of bed, I attended class, I emailed my advisor, I finished one chapter, I learned something new online, I went to a coffee shop or a public outing, each movement was good movement. I also wrote down my plans for the next day: take a long walk along the Beltline in Atlanta, read at that coffee shop down the street I'd never been to, go to the museum, buy tickets to that concert, learn how to paint, ask a classmate out to lunch, sign up for that yoga class, visit other places I found on the top 10 places to visit in Athens on The Odyssey. Not every day had to be productive, some days I genuinely wanted to lie in bed and watch Netflix.

Deleting social media was crucial. I wasn't trying to show anyone that I was better. I wasn't trying to be better at all. in Mark Manson's The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck, "The desire for a more positive experience is itself a negative experience. And, paradoxically, the acceptance of one's negative experience is itself a positive experience." When I went off the grid, I accepted the fact that I was lonely, and I accept this loneliness because with it comes the ability to learn to not depend on others for fun, the experience of dealing with sadness and hurt, and being my own therapist. I had been your friend. I wish you stayed mine, but I will be okay that you didn't.