This is for the you who was a still-not-quite-adjusted junior and the me who was a wreck of a culture-shocked freshman. This is for the way we sat in the back of the Spanish room when you were the closest thing I had to a shoulder to cry on, and for the way we stayed up on G-chat talking to crowd out the silence. This is for the way you were the only one I ever stayed up for.

This is for the you who rejected me and the me who took ages to stop trying. This is for the way you talked me through the breakup, and for the way you barely said a word to me in Nashville. This is for the way you’re simultaneously one of the nicest and most negligent people I know.

This is for the you who was captain of everything and the me who tried harder just to please you. This is for the way you grandfathered me onto the team and motivated me once I got there, and for the way I worked harder than anyone just to prove I was worth it. This is for the way you were the only one who could have gotten me to do that.

This is for the you who called yourself an asshole and the me who thought you were right. This is for the way our friendship has only ever worked over the internet, and for the way we can sit in the same room without talking only to go home and talk on Facebook for hours. This is for the way I don’t know if we’re really friends.

This is for the you who went off to college and the me who stayed behind. This is for the way we go to lunch when you’re home on breaks now, and for the way you make fun of my driving as I take you to the restaurant. This is for the way you hugged me goodbye last time and counted on your fingers the number of months before we’d see each other again.

This is for the you who wanted one of the most messed-up girls at Stanford and the me who tried to give you advice. This is for the way you talk about her like she’s the only person ever to have suffered, and for the way I think I’ve found her in my eighth-grade poetry. This is for the way I can tell you finally know what love is.

This is for the you who forgot my birthday and the me who had the nerve to get mad about it. This is for the way you’ve never been easy to manipulate, and for the way I don’t know what to do about that. This is for the way I tend to let things slide because you offer no better alternative.

This is for the you who isn’t speaking to me and the me who doesn’t want to apologize. This is for the way our egos have always clashed, and for the way that we still blame each other for it every time. This is for the way I miss you more than I can say and suspect that you don’t feel the same.

This is for you, you know. And this is for me.