I still have your location. I’m not sure I ever want to talk again, but sometimes I do want to know where you are on a Friday afternoon in autumn, five years after we last spoke. And then I get to see you: ricocheting down the highway states away from me, towards some destination I don’t know, won’t know, will forget to check the name of when you arrive in 10 minutes. It’s sweet to craft a dream of it—you, head out the window like a dog, wind ruffling through short-long hair, dyed green-brown-bleached-blonde-orange-some color I couldn’t name now, cheeks high and pink with sun. What a shame we always lived so far away from each other. What a kindness it all happened only in my phone. The glitter stuck in the corners of the letters we sent, your handwriting in blue cursive (MY FRIENDS ARE SICK OF HEARING ABOUT YOU—SUCKS 4 THEM!), the ambulance I had to get somebody else to call when you drank a bottle of bleach while I was in third period, the one and only night we ever slept in the same bed, your wall covered with boyfriends’ names in sharpie, how I woke up the next morning with you already looking at me, the secret knowledge that we were shuttering far away from each other lying warm between us like a cat curled up in a ball, the second ambulance call, then the third. King of my heart, angel of the world, know this: so much of what I write is an echo after you. I hope you get home safe. Don’t speed on the highway. Roll up the window. Keep your cheeks pink. The kid inside of me loves the kid inside of you, forever, always, for all time.