I didn’t know your friend, and I’d fail if asked to list five simple biographical facts about you, but I know you–maybe you know me too, maybe not. And I understand this “you” is not you, but rather, my perception of the version of yourself curated for the amphitheater of social media, as it’s cropped up in my feeds from Tumblr to Instagram to Twitter, among fields of people I know IRL, which is likely the root of this intimacy I feel. Although I believe you and I are similar insofar as our membranes between public/private are thinner than most, I know there are things I don’t or can’t know, but I’ve always found you interesting, likely had a large crush on you at some point, and your tweets about your friend’s death hurt my heart like it wouldn’t have if I didn’t know you. Your commentary while watching the highly esteemed Saw franchise for the first time earned its place in my Internet Hall of Fame, and it was a little disorienting, yet in retrospect made perfect sense, for me to laugh to the point of pain at what you had to say on the spectacle of gore orchestrated by dying-of cancer John Kramer, because I know you, or this image of you, built from the way autumn sunlight kisses the angles of your face, the Edwardian dresses you pose in, the melted glacial blue of your gaze, how you inhabit the mundane in eternal photoshoot; it was natural incorporating your funniness into all this, not as revision, but as something there from the start. Part of me feels I shouldn’t be writing this letter to you—who am I to intrude upon such a highly intimate moment when I’m not even remotely an integral part of your life? Perhaps the urgency I felt to write to you isn’t sufficient enough an answer, but it was intense enough for me to see this through. Freshman year of UMass, around the time you and I first connected, I think, I was friends with this girl, Nina, who lived in my dorm, who’d see me pulling all sorts of stupid shit (i.e. piggyback riding some guy through the halls, knocking on each door to offer a spoon-fed glop of Nutella to whoever opened) and tell me, bursting with giddiness, “You really need to meet my boyfriend, you’d love each other.” One weekend he visited and proved Nina right—Jake and I were so same-wavelengthed hanging out was like sitting next to a mirror–but more than that, here was this whole other human who saw and understood me, who I saw and understood, better even, than we saw and understood ourselves. Another weekend, I hadn’t known he was coming until I heard TONIGHT WE RIDE! right outside my window, in his best imitation of the La Dispute vocalist; I threw on shoes and rushed outside to tackle-hug him.