Months later, I saw him at Villains again, this time with a woman. He introduced us. “This is my girlfriend.” They had just met. She was friendly and tiny and skinny. She wore a tank top and big silver glasses, and she had long black hair.

Now, she was across the bar, putting in songs for karaoke. Tommy flagged the bartender and turned to me. “Did I see you leave with someone the other night?”

I blushed. “Yeah. Old friend. She left yesterday.”

“Aw”—he grinned—“I thought maybe you two were—I dunno.”

“No.” I wonder sometimes: Did the script get flipped? Do they want us to be lesbians now? I changed the subject. “Are you singing?”

“I’m doing the Dead Milkmen. What’d you put in?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t tell you!” I said. “It’s bad luck to give away your tune.”

Sometimes I watch TV and I want to throw it against the wall. Sometimes I read a book and I want to rip out every page. Sometimes I am in a restaurant, patiently waiting for my takeout, and I see a straight couple my age laughing as they get their bags and go home and I want to block the entrance right in front of them and claw my eyes out and say, “Tell me—how did it happen? Did you meet at a fucking art opening? After a whole dramatic year on Tinder? DID YOU MEET AT FUCKING TIM HORTONS?! Are you going home to your fucking cat or your fish or your ADORABLE CHILD?!”

I have never been an aggressive person, as you know. And I would like to say I don’t know where this urge to rage comes from. Except. Of course. I know exactly where it comes from. It shouldn’t be so simple.

You were the angry one, during the time we were closest. Angry at your brothers, angry at your parents, angry at your cruel goof of an ex-boyfriend who all the drama kids thought was the sweetest (jerks). But, Sue, you were also angry at your friends. They had no interest in showing you they cared, at least not to the degree that you wanted. I wonder why you never got mad at me—if I was a random exception, or if I was the only one who you understood cared about you. I hope it’s the latter.

I’m so, so sorry I didn’t know how sick you were. I’m so fucking sad you’re gone. I can’t tell you how much I wish we’d had more time. Even though there was never romance between us, or any universe where that could’ve made sense, something inside me feels like we could’ve grown old with each other, pieced together something resembling companionship, some kind of life in a small house with separate bedrooms and a cluttered kitchen table. God, I’m so sorry. I know that must sound so weird, but it’s true and I’ve only realized that just now. Here. After you’re gone. I’ve just realized that now. I’m so sad, I feel like I can’t even move.