We used to write on Tumblr everyday. I loved reading your thoughts and seeing your brain work. You were an amazing writer. It was art for us.

We used to talk all the time on FB Messenger, even though we lived a few apartments down from each other. We talked about getting tattoos, and our hang outs usually would involve you drawing up some designs we would come up with. You were one of the most talented artists I had seen. We talked about boys and gushed over the details involved in shaking hands with the eye candies at church. We also swore we would never get married. We had our No Boys Allowed Club (that had a much more vulgar name), but that had a busy revolving door on it. We talked about our struggles and our screw ups, our low points and bad decisions, and how God is just better than those things and how we are also better than those things. You were really good at encouraging me.

You shaved your hair off with me when I was sick. I wanted to choose when my hair was gone, not the chemo, and you rallied behind me. We sat next to each other, holding hands and squeezing our eyes shut as the razor buzzed over our heads. When we finally opened our eyes and looked at each other we burst into uncontrollable laughter because of how funny we looked. You didn’t cry. You didn’t stare at yourself and feel insecure. We laughed and we felt each other’s fuzzy heads and you made that night so much fun. You made the hardest process I have had to go through such a sweet memory. And your bravery to shave off the biggest piece of identity we have as women with me gave me so much courage and liberation in the process. You never left me alone. You were amazing at championing me.

When I found out you were gone yesterday, I went back onto Tumblr and found you. Your last posts were back in 2015, but they were eye-opening. You talked about staying. And how the most important thing you can do is stay in someone’s pain with them, and yet it’s the hardest thing to find–someone who will stay. You talked about death. And how you weren’t afraid of it. It’s actually bravery for you to continue living, and a way of fighting to portray hope in a broken world. You talked about the struggle it is to stay in your own pain though, and how you tried more than once to leave, and how hard it is that you are still here, knowing you failed in leaving your own pain.

I didn’t know. I didn’t know you were hurting like this.

Because I left.

It’s been almost a decade since I’ve talked to you, and I have thought about you on rare occasion as a past memory, but you were still here, still living, still hurting. And I didn’t know.

I am so sorry. I am sorry that I left. You stayed in my hardest season of life, and I left you in yours. It wasn’t you. I was running from my own pain, trying to seek out the adrenaline rush that would bring me back to life again. I was looking for an escape. I didn’t want to stay in the place that reminded me of it all. So I left. It wasn’t you. But I wasn’t thinking about you. I wasn’t seeing your pain. I was only seeing mine. And I left.

I know it’s not my fault. I know life has a way of pulling us all part over time, and it’s rare that you actually end up with lifelong friends. I also see now that I have a way of migrating away from hardship. But don’t we always wish we could’ve been more when it’s too late? I wish I could have done something different, anything different, to somehow curb the despair that would rob you of the most precious gift in such an hour of deep hopelessness. I wish that I could’ve somehow been the answer that would’ve changed the story just enough to change the outcome; to be the reminder of significance that you are in this world so you would’ve chosen to stay. And I know this is selfish. Because I left. I tried to escape the pain. I didn’t stay. I haven’t been around for years. In a lot of ways, I forgot about you. Because I lumped you into a season of my life that was pain. And I didn’t want to stay around for that.

But you stayed. You remained in pain. You stayed in that dark season until it was too much.

And I didn’t know

I am so sorry. I wish I would’ve learned from your comfort; that I would’ve learned from your ability to lean into pain and remain. I will commit to learning now. Learning how to lean in. How to remain when it gets hard. How to stay.

You will always be a significant part of my story. You are one of the bright spots in my darkest season. And I will let your life grow mine so that I can become a person that stays.