We don’t really talk anymore. I sent you a message on your birthday this year, and you still haven’t seen it. That’s okay. We’re both busy.

You have a partner now, I heard from J. You’re doing well in university; you’ve found a lovely friend group and you’re happy. I’m so very glad to hear it. It is my sincerest hope that this peace you have found remains, that you keep it.

The pandemic messed you up. I couldn’t see you then, but we all were wondering if we’d lose you. I know you couldn’t walk, for a while. You’re so young, you’re the same age as me, and you’ve had to deal with such difficulty. I’m proud of you for not giving up. And look at you now? You’re walking just fine; you’re doing everything you wanted to do.

We have history. Extended history, at that. We met when we were both, what, nine? You were my first love, and I was yours. Of course, we were about fourteen at that point, and stupid, and queer love was confusing to you, and I was struggling. It was never going to work – I think we were destined to be friends. The string that connects us has always been yellow. It’s something I’m glad for, and something I think we both needed for a long time.

I’m sorry I wasn’t more open with you, when all of that happened. I know you worried. You didn’t like D from the start, and I should have listened. Thank you for not leaving.

I think, I hope, that I will see you in June. You’ll be invited, of course you will – it’s the one time a year we talk, as is the way with distant childhood friends. You’ve never missed it before, so hopefully this isn’t the year that changes. I might write to you again, after.