Ye-Ye and I used to have sleepovers and watch Buffy all night, and argue about which characters we were most like, and make bets on how long the Asian characters, who were always vampires, would last before Buffy dusted them. Mum used to order pizza for Ye-Ye, and make me up some warm blood in the flask I took to school, the one with the telescopic, opaque plastic straw that came out the top, so I could drink discreetly. I open Instagram now and look at Ye-Ye’s DM from the other day. I guess she’s probably seen that I’ve read her message. Maybe she’s wondering why I’m not replying. Part of me really wants to reply. I think about it, for a bit. I’d like to see what she’s like now, to hear about what she’s been doing, to maybe send her a message about me watching Buffy and thinking of her, to maybe talk to her about last night and Ben and my feelings, whatever they are, but the thought of having to cut her out of my life all over again is too painful.

For a little while I considered turning Ye-Ye. I was thirteen and we had Forever Friends mugs that matched, plus best friend necklaces, and friendship bracelets that we had woven for each other. It was my mug that made me think about it. The word “forever,” emblazoned across the top above a picture of two soft-looking bears. At that age, it felt like our relationship would never change; and then I realized I could make it so that once we hit eighteen or twenty or whatever our peaks might be, both of us really wouldn’t change and we could watch Buffy on the sofa together forever—for centuries and centuries—feeling even closer because we both drank blood. I didn’t turn her because my mum found out what I was planning, and showed me that if I did, I would be essentially killing Ye-Ye, and changing her into something that wasn’t the Ye-Ye I knew. I’d lose my friend forever, she said—which, though, I basically have now anyway.