Dear ...,
I don't know your name (not that I would put it up anyway), and I can't narrow you down to one defining characteristic. Every time I try to, I balk at the thought of summing you up in two words, because it really can't be done. I connect too many ideas and thoughts to you, and the ones that are clear, you would disagree with. But what bothers me is that I can remember every tiny detail about you, except for the one detail that could let me find you again- your name. I even went through all our old mutual friends' Facebook friends, hoping that someone looked you up- but you were here for just a year. And you faded fast, and we never had a way to get back in touch.
If I could see you again- or if you saw this dismal little blog post on a pathetic blip of a blog (I still hold a grain of hope), I would thank you immediately for getting me hooked on manga, then I'd yell at you immediately for the same reason. You let me borrow yours since my mom wouldn't let me buy my own, and it means more now than it did then. I don't know why the meaning grew, but it did.
You were the first love in my life- the first time that I fell so hard that I very nearly admitted it. I can't believe I was able to pass you off as just a friend (even to myself), and I can't believe I let you go. I really really can't believe I lost your name- but I didn't lose your smile, or the way the sunlight made your head a frizzy fire, even though you kept it locked down in a tight bun. Your hair is magnificent- or I assume it still is. Originally red, dyed black, stained red in the dawnlight. You dressed like a dyke, and I loved your clothes- baggy and so many pockets, and all I had was a skirt and ugly-ass purse. I wish we knew each other longer, and I wish I had had the courage then to just- just to hold your hand for a second and show you that I felt you were more than just a friend.
With regrets a plenty,
The weird girl goofy girl in drama class who did stupid accents and kept stealing your manga.
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