Hi. So I did some Facebook stalking yesterday, which for you requires both stealth and commitment since basically everything on your page is blocked as a result of your anti-FB vow (or whatever). I looked at your sisters’ pages, Darren’s page, and Luke’s page. (Like I said, commitment.) The boys weren’t much help but the sisters’ photos turned out to be very compelling. First of all you are adorable. The shorter hair, the glasses, the V-necks… Good choices. Okay, great choices. You look tan and happy and calmcenteredsteady, and even though my stomach didn’t do flip flips like it used to, seeing you was like oxygen. I saw photos of you with a girl at a concert, she beautiful, natural, an artist maybe, leaning back into you with her eyes closed and a smile on her face, and then with another, this one fun and fearless and always in the sunshine, your arm draped around her shoulder, fingers intertwined loosely with hers. I looked at this last one for a long while, this photo of you and a girl my age. Your hands. Your fingers. It’s hard to explain the jealously, a marker of all the things I like to believe are long faded. This, I said to myself when I was thinking about it again this morning, is why you can’t be friends with him. Because that pang, that ache, that longing will never go away. I may forget it for a second or a minute or a month or six but it will never not be there. It lingers, just below the surface, a layer like skin. And that’s fine. It just helps to have a reminder every now and then—like fingers laced together and bodies leaning in—that I am not your friend. Never was.