Don't Read Old E-mails This Late at Night

I miss Rose.

I miss the letters and emails, even if they had snips of rock songs here and there. We wrote so similarly yet differently. Rose's vignettes were lighter, full of optimism and love. Juliet's vignettes were dark, brimming with mourning and heartbreak. There was something fun about exchanging letters with someone who wrote so beautifully.

I miss the crazy midnight conversations on instant messenger, asinine arguments over sunbeams versus moonbeams and daisies in an abyss. Xela Aidyl Studios existed only through AIM.

I miss the laughter and grumbling we shared at every OPP tournament, how we revised our speeches constantly because we were always so unsatisfied with our writing. I wrote the darker stories of heartbreak and loss; now I scream every time someone reminds me of my hideous "Pretty Girl" speech. "Strawberry Fields Forever" was her domain; she was the Lily with the Peace Sign, two bouncing pigtails at every speech tournament.

I (almost) miss the crushing pressure of Policy debate we shared as partners. We bullshitted our way through League, beating a Varsity team to everyone's surprise. We were the slackers that acted like goody-goodies. Half the time, we didn't know what was going on in those heated debates, but we watched each other's backs in those fights.

I miss watching her break those hearts - the endless line of suitors from middle school, her shocking lapse-of-thinking first boyfriend, all the way to the TA in our ninth grade World Cultures class whose first sentence addressed directly to her was asking her out.

I miss the crazy and wild days of eighth grade, when we listened to nothing but "Yellow" by Coldplay and goofed off in Yearbook every single day.

I miss the Rose I once knew, but I cannot find the Juliet I once was. There is no way to turn back time, and this is how it was supposed to end.