I'm not going to bother apologizing for anything now because I know it's too late. (To be honest, I'm not sure anything I could have done deserves the punishment I've been handed.) I realize that, in your mind, I died two years ago. That's what I see when I look into your eyes now--death, emptiness. It's like staring into the eyes of a ghost. There was a time when just a look from you could kill me. You could have suffocated me with just a breath, Tramaine. I loved you. I love you. I was so afraid to tell you how I felt. I knew that losing you would kill me. I may still have my bouts with depression at times, but I haven't been suicidal since I learned the value of life, of other people. You helped to teach me that. You taught me to speak. I valued life, I valued you--so I kept my mouth shut.

I dated an openly bisexual boy a little over a year ago. He had a lot of stories. He told me once that there was a period of time where he came to school with knives hidden in his clothing, all over his body, because kids were following him home. He knew he'd get teased, but he didn't realize that he was putting his life as well as his dignity on the gambling table when he showed his cards. That's why I was so scared of you, Tramaine. I may have rage--enough to drive you away--but in physical confrontations, I imagine I'd be a lot better at running and hiding than at staying alive.

I used to play our last day as friends over and over again in my mind. It was the day Diana returned to school, after a battle with cancer. In spite of that, you acted like something was wrong. You tried to avoid me, but you wouldn't say anything. Things had been bad between us before, but you would never say anything. Finally, I asked. You said that you were sick and tired of the way I treated you. I held back tears. I said I was sorry. You invited me to lunch. I looked up at the girls you were ready to sit down with. With you lost to me now, I would be surrounded by nothing but contempt. The only reason I was ever there was to be with you. I ran off, crying, apologizing the whole way (whether you heard or not). You let me go. You ignored me the rest of that day. You'd ignored me for a good year or so when I decided to call you.

I would listen to U2, your favorite band, and cry. I could swear that I heard the telephone ring every time I listened to "With or Without You." A friend of mine told me it meant that I should talk to you. Eventually, I did. Broken and shaking and nervous and sweating, I did. We talked about Diana, who had passed on by then. You brought closure to her death, and I thank you for it. We talked about boys and school. We talked about how neither one of us could remember why we stopped talking. I told you I wanted to be your friend again. You had to go. The next day, you avoided my eyes, as usual. It was hell. I'd dyed my hair with the sunshine yellow Punky Colour you'd bought me for Christmas one year. I wore the Cure shirt you loved. It wasn't all for your benefit--I was going to a show that night and meeting another unrequited love like you. I wanted to impress him. But I'd be lying if I'd said you weren't in the back of my mind somewhere while I got dressed that morning.

I've tended to idealize our friendship--and most of all, you--throughout the months we've spent in silence. I once saw you the way I once saw Billy Corgan--you were my idol. I forgave your faults; they made you all the more perfect and beautiful to me. I ignored the disdain you treated me with when we went to see the Smashing Pumpkins at the Cow Palace. Was I so bad? They were my favorite band, and it was my first concert ever. Of course I was excited. It was like seeing God. I ignored the winter break you invited me to spend with you in Berkeley--when you tried to kick me out after a couple days because I bothered you. Your mother asked if I was homesick. I wish she'd been honest. I wish you'd been honest from the very beginning. You both could have saved me a lot of trouble, a lot of heartbreak.

The killer here is the way I viewed our friendship. Maybe you saw it as completely platonic, but for me, it was laced with lesbian undertones. I realize now that it was all wishful thinking on my part. I remember sitting on a bench with you in San Francisco and getting the urge to kiss you for the first time. I held myself back with all my strength. I remember crying on my bed in front of you because I was afraid--and you assuring me that you would never leave me for another friend. I believed you. After everything you'd done, after all the lies, I can't believe that I believed you.

You're a beautiful artist. I've always thought that. I've seen the drawings and sketches displayed at school and at bus stops around town. I've learned to admire them from a distance, an aesthetic appreciation, but I detach myself before anything remotely passionate or emotional can rise up within me. You're a cold-hearted bitch, Tramaine, and the only way I was able to get over you was to become like you.

Love,