i. You sat down next to me and asked me what I was reading. When I looked up, you became just another encounter in my life—a face that I’ll remember as the person who approached me that day. When you left, I didn’t think of you again.

ii. I saw you again and you were reading that book. Your face lit up when I approached you this time and you began to excitedly tell me the things I already knew about the characters; love lines were just being introduced and you couldn’t wait to see where they would end up. I already knew the ending, but I couldn’t wait either.

iii. Our unplanned encounters began to be planned. We spent hours at the café down the street, talking about music and books and philosophers and life. Cup after cup, we abused the all you can drink coffee option until we were taking turns using the restroom. I never wanted to leave.

iv. We moved from the café back to my apartment. You didn’t mind the mess; I didn’t mind showing it to you. Our discussion of the novel you finished turned into a silent discussion of our bodies that traveled on deep into the night. When I woke up the next morning, you were gone.

v. I didn’t see you after that night, even when I inconspicuously walked by the bookstore and the café. There were a few times when I walked in and sat down at the table where you had told me that your biggest fear was losing the necklace your deceased mother had left behind. I drank a cup of coffee and couldn’t tell if I had lost you or if you had left me behind.

vi. We met again and you didn’t remember me.

I can’t remember birthdays.

I can’t remember anniversaries, the first day we met, or even when our next date is. I can’t remember anything if it deals with numbers (unless there’s a particular reason for that number). My brain works like an office; there are papers scattered everywhere but with my slight case of ADD, I can’t figure out what papers belong to what. In the corner though, there’s a gray filing cabinet that’s been chipped in just all the right places. Inside this filing cabinet, I keep files like that. If you pull out my mother’s file, it’ll have her birthday on there, her anniversary with my father, and it might even have the names of all of her children (I couldn’t be bothered to remember my own siblings’ names). I never look at these files unless I really need to—that’s why they’re in a filing cabinet. It’s a place to store information that’s not useful to my every day.

I have characters in my head that sometimes, I think are real. They keep me company when I’m alone in my room at 4 in the morning, writing out their story. I can change anything I want about them; I can change their hair colour, their personality traits—I can even change the way they walk. You shouldn’t date me because I’ll hide behind these characters; they’ll become a part of me and I’ll start being a part of them. They’ll become my excuse for why I couldn’t spend the night with you last night—“I needed to finish my story”—why we couldn’t go to the park—“I can’t walk and write”—why I couldn’t have dinner with you—“eating takes too much time away from my writing.” If you want to date me, you have to date my characters too.

I can’t prioritize. If I can’t remember your birthday, how will I be able to remember you? I’ll remember the way your hair smells right after a shower (and I might even have one of my characters smell that way too) and I’ll remember how you looked on your first day of work (you have never been more professional) but I won’t remember what your face looks like the day you decide to walk away from me. I won’t hear anything other than the screaming of our first fight and how there’s a vein that pops up on your neck when you get angry. I can’t remember to bring you to my coffee dates with myself and I won’t remember to call you to say good night. I’ll end up saying good morning to you when it’s 3 in the morning and you’ve come looking for me since I haven’t found you.

Don’t date me because I can give you nice gifts. I’ll always remember your favourite colour and the way you laugh at puns. I keep these things in the front of my mind: what makes you smile, what jokes you like, and insiders that only you and I understand. I’ll bring you Sleepless in Seattle with four bars of Hershey’s chocolate when you’re on your period; I’ll carry you on my back after a drunken night of karaoke and beer. When you can’t sleep at night, I’ll put my hand in yours and shake your arm, as if telling you that I’m your reality and your nightmares are just dreams. Your medication will be counted out to the exact dosage when you’re sick—I’ll always have a cup of warm hot chocolate right beside it too (since I know you hate tea). I’ll keep all of this in mind while I create presents to give you on days I can’t remember.

I’ll know exactly when you wake up to go to work and what time your boss will let you come home, but I’ll still forget to bring you roses on your birthday.

I’m not a good catcher.

When I was younger, my father never took me to the park like all the other kids’ dads did. I hated the sun, and he knew that—he also liked to work more than he liked to be around me. “Time is money,” he’d always say as he laced up the shiny, black Italian loafers he’d just imported. “Why don’t you go read a book?” I learned how to hate the sun when I read James and the Giant Peach and that stupid peach looked like a replica of a sun that swallowed James whole.

I didn’t eat many peaches after that, nor did I go outside often.

In school, I was chosen last to play on just about every team sport—even basketball, despite my height towering over many of my classmates. During the spring, we played baseball. I remember cowering at first base because my father never taught me how to catch a ball, since he never took me to the park. When the batter stood up at the plate, I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. The moment the cracking sound indicated that the ball had indeed been hit by the bat, my limbs shook in fear and I hid behind the worn and torn baseball mitt.

"It’s yours!" I heard the voice of my classmate shout from across the field and I knew that out of the four plates, I was the one he was yelling at. "Catch it!" I peeked an eye open and I watched in awe as the white leather ball came straight towards me like  comet rushing to crash into the Earth; it blocked the sun from my eyes and out of instinct, I raised my arms to the heavens as if I was asking God to catch the ball for me.

It landed in my mitt, but like I said—I was never taught how to catch a ball. It rolled off of my brown leather surface and touched the sand. It reminded me of the time my cousin had tossed me my mother’s gold-rimmed plate from across the kitchen while we were doing the dishes after dinner.

The ball didn’t break, but I still heard the same shattering sound of the gold-rimmed plate crushing to pieces at the impact of the white linoleum floor.

We were drunk on each other—at 2:36 on a Monday morning, we couldn’t take our hands off of each other. I turned to you and closed my eyes; I was in love with the idea of you, but I didn’t love you. Your fingers trickled down my arm and your lips pressed against my shoulder, mouthing words that I guessed said something along the lines of “I’m glad I met you” but I chose to ignore them in my oblivious manner. You tried to hold my hand, but I pulled away—the more physical it got, the less intimate I wanted it to be. We were drunk on each other, but I wanted to sober up; the morning after was my least favourite part.

You have always been unpredictably cool and golden retriever status loyal. You hid in closets with me when Mom and Dad were yelling and you held my hand through each silent treatment and each “let’s sit down, we need to have a talk” moments. You came to me when you needed help reading and to pick out clothes for school dances.

You were the first person to laugh at all my jokes and the first to tell me that that dress did make my *** look big—you were also the first to remind me that I was beautiful, especially when I didn’t believe it myself. You didn’t stop crying when I hugged you, but we’d both just end up in a teary, sobbing mess because when one hurt, so did the other. You put up with my obnoxious free-spirited ways that collided with each of your organized, to-the-point methods all these years and never once questioned me. You had my back even when I was in the wrong. You believed in me when no one else did.

You grew up to be amazing. Whatever you wanted to do, you did it. You studied and you learned and you just grew into this person that I knew you could be. You’ve had a number of set backs but your ability to keep moving forward is what makes me admire you. The world is at your disposal—you are now in control. The dreams you’ve had for a while now are finally coming true, and it’s because of you that they are. I couldn’t be prouder.

Your attention to detail always fascinated me. You never forgot a single appointment, a birthday, a dollar loaned, where Dad left his car keys—whenever I was lost, you help me find my way again. Although you’re the “little” sister, you’ve always been the one I looked up to.

When people walk all over your heart and took you for granted, I was proud of you for standing up for yourself and removing those who aimed to bring you down. Although you lost a number of friends, you never lost yourself. You found solace in those who truly deserve to be in your life, learning a lesson that took years for me to learn.

To this day, there’s no one who can get under my skin more than you do. There’s no one who knows better than you what buttons to push with me, but there’s also no one who knows better how to cheer me up after a long, exhausting day. Fighting with you is more aggravating than with anyone else—the world is only correctly in place when we’re in sync, so kudos to us for not being able to be mad at each other for more than a few hours.

We used to say that if we weren’t sisters, we probably wouldn’t even be friends so I’m glad that the universe blessed me with someone like you. I can’t imagine sharing parents with anyone else, because who else could do what you do? I thank my lucky stars that I have you around, because with parents like ours, I’ll need someone to talk about whatever embarrassing or nurturing or cute or terrible or weird or unfair thing they’re up to next.

What else can I say? Even though you’re 3,000 miles away and we’re about to begin the rest of our lives, I know that one day we’re going to be the weird old ladies on the block still listening to the Backstreet Boys and making bad impersonations of our relatives.

You don’t like being touched so we don’t hug. Hugging is weird. Affection is weird but you’ll send me pick up lines like you’re a guy at the bar and I’m the girl you’re trying to take home for the night. People tell us we should just get married ‘cause I know I’ll never find someone who will treat me right like you do. We’d be lesbians, except you’re on the hunt for tail and I’m not into you like that.

When you were 11 and I was 13, people used to think we were sisters because we looked alike. I used to think you were kind of weird (but I think over the years it’s gotten worse) and now your weirdness just adds to your charm. I’m not sure what I was thinking the first 3 or 4 years of our friendship when I decided that there were other people who were more important than you, but I’m glad I learned my lesson. There’s only one person in this world who will sit in my car with me for 10 minutes while I cry and bring me eyeliner without a question and that’s you.

We’re not the inseparable set of friends where we have to go everywhere with each other, be everywhere with each other and be attached to the hip because God knows we’d be so sick of each other by the end of the day but I’m glad we’re the kind to be real with each other and not be butthurt. If you tell me I look fat in something, I’ll tell you that you look worse. We call each other names but we’ll still stay married on Facebook. We talk once, maybe twice a day but we (almost) always pick up each other’s phone calls when needed because sometimes I just need to hear the comfort of your voice. We’re a long distance relationship without the miss-you ***.

I’m not sure how often I tell you this but here it is again: i love you and I’m glad you’re in my life. I don’t like calling people my best friend because it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth but you’re my best friend and it took me nearly 8 years now to have it finally hit because when I’m crying, when my heart is broken, when I’m stressed out, or when I have some really great news, you’re the first to hear it. And probably the greatest part is that I’m not anything less with you.

You’re the kinda chick where you ogle numbers and numbers of guys on end but is too shy to actually say anything because contrary to what everyone else thinks, I know all you want is to be loved for who you are and one day, you’ll find someone who will do that for you. And until then, I’ll fill in his space the best I can (mostly because I’m missing a pretty vital ***** otherwise we’d be mates for life). Sometimes you can be steadfastly cool. Sometimes I’m embarrassed to be seen in public with you. But most of the time it’s both and it’s what makes being with you different from being around anyone else.

Aside from this weird burst of affection I have for you, you’re probably off somewhere getting drunk off your *** and you’ll be texting me the next day telling me how drunk you were last night and I’ll laugh because you’re an alcoholic in the making and that’s just the kind of people we are with each other. It’s just nice to have someone who’s been there through the good, the bad, and the ugly and still be able to call my friend. We don’t judge each other even though you have more dirt on me than my own parents do.

Once gay marriage becomes legal in Texas, I know we’re gonna get hitched and raise some dope lookin’ children while we sit in Jin’s Korean bbq and scrounge for babes and convince them to date us.

Utter the word "long distance" and the first thing that comes to mind afterwards is relationship. After relationship, comes a lover 3,000 miles away that's dedicated to falling asleep on Skype and has Snapchat constantly open to remind you about how their day is going. Time differences. Distance. It all becomes blurred together when it's 4 in the morning here, but 6 in the morning there, and they're asleep but you're not. Welcome to your long distance relationship.

But when it's 4 in the morning here and it's 12 in the afternoon there and there's more than just miles in between us but oceans, you never forget to wish me a happy birthday and if your boss is nice to you that day and adds the extra dollar to your paycheck, there might even be a gift or two for me being sent first class (because who would ever dare fly coach these days?). You'd swim the ocean for me, if I asked. You'd push the countries together. To (platonically) love another person, as the saying goes, is to see the face of God and you are an angel.

There will be days where we don't talk. The days turn into months, and the months turn into years. The longest, I think, was the hardest of year mine--coincidence? But even when the hours begin to add up and it seems like the ocean is getting bigger and bigger, you never cease to tell me that I'm one of the most beautiful people you've ever met (and **** the skinny girls who tell me otherwise). I would have turned the world upside down just to bring us closer together, if I could.

We're too young to not go out and live life with the people who are here, but who's to say that the people who aren't physically here aren't real? I can reach out and touch the girl next to me, but her warmth won't mean as much as when I go home and sign into Skype and your voice is already bouncing through my computer's speakers ready to tell me about your day. We cry together. We dream together. We always said we'd grow old together.

They say you can't really know someone when you've never met them, but I've met you in more ways than I can count. I've met the way you sleep at night (thanks to Skype and time differences), because you snore when you're too tired. I've met the way your eyes light up when you talk about your job, your hobbies, the things you like. From my 13" screen, I've met your siblings, the posters on your walls, the room you sleep in. We depend on technology to meet each other so don't let anyone tell you that technology is ruining lives. It's been saving mine.

So, my friend, thank you for the long nights of telling each other our life stories, learning secrets, learning quirks that no one else has ever noticed (because no one else seemed to care). Thank you for taking my side in almost every situation and for keeping me company as I sleep. Thank you for the birthday serenades over Skype, picking up the phone when I'm drunk and crying, and for growing old with me. For all of the movie nights that we spent on Skype yelling "okay, press play in 3, 2, 1!" and for all of the advice about people you'll never meet, cheers to you, to us, the time, and distance apart.