I never thought that hearing someone say that they were the daughter of divorced lesbians would make me instantly want to be friends with them, but with you, that’s how it all started. You were sitting there, cross-legged, on a couch in the middle of the dormitory common room. It was our first night living away from home. Most of the girls were sweaty and disheveled from hauling their belongings up two flights of stairs in the sticky, un-air conditioned, August weather. Not you; you had on a pair of high-waisted shorts and ballet flats, and you wore the top layer of your hair pulled back into a half pony tail gathered at the back of your head. You were quiet and reserved, so poised. The dozen or so of us girls had positioned ourselves in a circle, lounging on chairs and sofas. We went around and introduced ourselves, saying our names and an interesting fact. When it got to your turn, you looked up and smiled meekly, stating, “My name is Liz, and I have two moms”. I watched you intently until you had finished speaking. You were so honest; you had nothing to hide. It was then that I knew that you would be something great.

I was sixteen. I came from a small, rural town in Minnesota. I left and moved out into the big city of Minneapolis to pursue my dream of being a musician at an art high school. It was something that I had fantasized about for years, and when the time finally came, it felt surreal. When I had opened my acceptance letter the previous spring, I cried tears of joy and reached out to feel something to make sure I wasn’t just imagining it all. Although this was everything I had ever wanted, I still thought long and hard about my decision to transfer schools. I would have to sacrifice a lot in order to come here: my position as stage manager for my school’s drama department, my first alto chair in the concert choir, my top-class rank, my home. It was a lot to give up, but I decided that the reward I would get and the many opportunities that came with art school were something that I simply couldn’t pass up. I finished the school year strong, said my goodbyes, purchased a new hipster wardrobe and dorm room paraphernalia, and embarked on a new adventure.

And it has been an adventure, Liz. I think we can both vouch for that.

The first few weeks were strange and new. Everyone was adjusting to classes, cooking, and shower schedules. Although your artistic focus was theater and mine was music, we had all of our academic classes together, and you lived just two rooms down from me, so we saw quite a bit of each other. We quickly fell into the habit of sitting in the quad at night doing our homework together. I helped you with pre-calculus, which went right over your creative and imaginative, little head, and you explained to me the deeper meanings of the stories we read in our literature class, which went right over mine. You got so excited talking about metaphors and symbolism; your big, green eyes just lit up. You were always speaking philosophically, asking questions I simply did not have the answers to. You questioned life and our existence; I questioned other things.

Since my first weeks at art school, I had questioned my choice to give up everything and come there. I missed my friends and family. I missed the life I was no longer living, but even on my most unbearable nights, the ones when I would call my parents bawling and lock myself in my dorm room, you still managed to put a smile on my face. I remember once calling my dad, crying, and telling him that I wanted him to bring me home. After hanging up the phone and recollecting myself, I went out into the quad; lo and behold, there you were, sitting with your math text book, ready to commence our habitual study session. You kept me grounded.

I found myself completely falling head-over-heels in love with our friendship. We were silly together; we played peek-a-boo behind furniture and pranked each other relentlessly. We were serious; we talked about the future and exchanged our deepest, darkest secrets. It was perfect. I liked you for who you were, and you did the same for me. You made me so happy, Liz. Sometimes you would just stare at me, looking so intensely that I almost felt uncomfortable. I realize now that that was because you were seeing things in me that no one else had ever cared enough to look at. You would tell me that I was beautiful, and the way you said it, so matter-of-factly, almost made me believe it myself.

But I couldn’t do it anymore, Liz. About two months into the school year, I realized that I was losing parts of me I wasn’t willing to give up. There was a gaping hole inside of me where the activities and people in my life once lived. A part of me was dying, and even though you were bringing to life a completely different part, I wasn’t ready to bury the other one. Sitting here, writing this to you, I have to tell you that I am going back home, and I am so sorry.

I’m sorry for you, and I’m sorry for me because no matter how much you tell me you’ll miss me, I can promise you that I’ll miss you more. I’ve always had a problem with caring too much for other people who don’t look at me in the same light. I have had my fair share of disappointment when it comes to relationships and thinking they’re more significant than they actually are, but for the first time in my life, a person made me feel like I was something special, something worth loving. You did that, Liz. You came into my life and completely changed everything.

The truth is, you are more than I could ask for in a person. I’ve told you things that I haven’t even told some of my closest friends who I have known for years. Liz, you are a beautiful human being. The way you climb and jump on furniture, the way you speak only truths, the way you talk in a myriad of random, foreign accents on any given day. You’ve evolved from the quiet, composed girl on the first night, to a fun-loving, extraordinary person whom I am so grateful to call a friend. Thank you for being alive. Thank you for the time we’ve spent together and the time I hope to spend with you throughout the future because I can assure you that this is not the end.

I knew it when I saw you, Liz. I was right when I looked across the room at you and saw someone that I wanted to befriend. I knew from the start that you were something great.