She had been everything I hadn’t been: generous, outgoing and glamorous but also reckless, irresponsible and sarcastic. Her tragedies had given her a streak of vulnerability, quite visible in the brittleness of her slowly decaying beauty. I resorted to writing; she numbed her heartaches with parties and dangerous men. As foes, we fought a lot—even more as friends. Whenever I scorned her for hooking up with a brooding stranger or walking home alone at night, she would laugh in my face, first mocking me, embarrassing me, telling me I didn’t know how to have fun, and then begging me for forgiveness, crying, apologizing, saying she hadn’t meant it that way. In retrospect, I am not quite sure whether I liked her all that much. I guess it was that adventurous, elusive side of her that drew me in. Even now, so many years after her untimely death, I still wonder whether she had ever realized that being with her was the closest I had ever been to falling in love with a girl.