We were “writing friends,” though, which I learned was a particular sort of friendship. Our lives were still separate. We could go days without speaking with or seeing each other—wrapped up in a draft or some particular mood. If someone didn’t show up to an event or left early or flaked last minute, it wasn’t considered weird. The social rules of this insular world agreed with me. It meant I could disappear, and no one would question me. Writing came first. If you received a text saying “on a roll” or “in the middle”—you knew not to interrupt. Despite the fact that we had practically no
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