In middle school, I sat near a group of girls in English class. One day before the bell rang, they were all talking about their boyfriends. I didn’t have a boyfriend, but I piped up anyway, telling them I was dating a boy in high school. They bought it and started drawing me into the conversations from then on. Our friendship didn’t last past seventh grade, though.

But with Millie it was different. She was the first friend—maybe the first person in my entire life—who really saw me.

The real me.

I didn’t have to put on an act or be someone I wasn’t.

She thought I was amazing. Special. Unique. And when I was with her, I believed I was too.

One of my favorite things about Millie was how much she loved to dance. When I picture her in my mind, that’s what she’s doing. Dancing. She was always doing it. It was like when she heard music, she was unable to keep her body from moving in sync with it. She’d dance in the store, on the street, in front of other people, she didn’t care.

Whenever I was over, she’d blast music in her room and make me dance with her. I’ve never been much of a dancer. Seat-dancing, I can do. My arms aren’t the problem. It’s my legs that refuse to obey. But Millie never took no for an answer. She’d tug on my arms until I gave in. Although, in all honesty, it didn’t take much coaxing.

Dancing with Millie made me feel weightless. Free. Beautiful.

She’d slide her fingers through mine and guide my movements to help me find the rhythm. The beat flowed from her.

I often danced with my eyes closed. Mostly because I was trying to concentrate, so I wouldn’t step on her feet. But also, because then I couldn’t see how clunky my movements were. In my mind, I could picture myself dancing gracefully.

One afternoon we were dancing in her room. My eyes were closed. Millie was guiding my movements, her fingers wrapped around mine, when all of the sudden one of her hands released mine and grazed my cheek. I opened my eyes to find her face so close I could feel the heat of her breath on my face, smell her fruity lip gloss that always sparkled intensely on her lips. She looked so serious, her eyes meeting mine. As she moved in closer, her hand sliding back toward my hair, I thought she was going to kiss me.

I’ve never been into girls. Not before or since. But in that moment, I wanted her to press her lips to mine.

Apparently, I’d read the entire situation wrong, though. She was just brushing a strand of hair off my cheek.

When she pulled back, I felt so many conflicting things. Disappointment. Relief. Confusion.