I told her about a boy I’d known when I was fifteen and lifeless. How I felt a closeness to him that was both a beautiful medley and a dissonant mash-up. How I missed him but certainly didn’t love him. I couldn’t love boys—I’d never felt that strongly about a boy since. And in a moment of wisdom so incisive it almost harmed, she grabbed my hand and told me, “All I know is I’ve never missed anything I didn’t love.”
