Dearest Friend,

I hope you know that you give the best hugs. I never really liked the hugs where people pat my shoulder like I might break. From day one, you've hugged me fiercely every time I asked. And every time you did, something inside me decided to stay alive just a little bit longer for you.

Now, in relapse, you are the one dying.

There is no sense in valuing that which we do not control and disregarding that which we do, but that is precisely the tango you dance with your eating disorder.

I love you. I loved you on day one, I love you now, and I will never be able to accept that you will soon be gone. I miss you.

Regardless of the pain of your absence, I continue to live without you and go about my day trying desperately- and failing miserably- to disregard the times that I've spent with you. Please do not forget that you will always be my closest friend. Please do not forget that I often wish to take your place. I avoid my own relapse the way I avoid gunshots- carefully and completely- but I'd take this bullet for you. I wish you could have some of my strength.

I cannot help but feel like loving you was assisted suicide. I, too, have wished that they'd throw my skeleton into the washer with the sheets to let me dissolve completely; but I did not twist myself into the sheets to hide. Was it my fault? I held your hand under the table. Your blood spilled over my hands and dripped off my wrists. I cannot get clean. It feels like your blood is still on my hands, leaving a dim red staining. In my dreams, I scream for help, scream for someone's attention, but I can never scream loudly enough; the people do not come in time. They barely made it the first time, and this time, they will not come because you are "supposed to be cured."

I'm sorry society doesn't understand that you are dying.

I should have done something, said something, but because your blood was not red, I said nothing. Because you exchanged blood for bones, I said nothing. Because your gun and pills were anorexia and self-harm, I said nothing. I blamed it on your abuser. I still do. I should have done something, said something, and I didn't. I'm sorry.

The way your eyes light up when you genuinely laugh has kept me awake at night, envying a guilt-free happiness. Your smile takes over your face and I hope that one day I will see you smile because you are happy, not because you are "cured." Your hair — I've been obsessed with your long and perfect locks since day one — floats and lilts gently around your shoulders and frames your face.

You are not yet dead, but you may as well be. Your eating disorder has taken you away from me, left your empty body a sac to hold the screaming voices and irrational fears. You are not yet dead, but I miss you anyway.