We spent two years together. We saw each other almost every day. I don’t remember how we met, or how we became friends at all. To be truthful, I can hardly remember most of the things you said to me. Even the last day I spent with you, there’s moments I left behind.

We accidentally wore coordinated outfits that day. We had about a collective of forty-five dollars that we were willing to spend with no real plan other than to be with each other and walk the streets of Waikiki. I missed doing nothing with you. We walked into about six stores and didn’t buy anything but two sodas from a fountain machine. We laughed, held hands, took pictures, and above all we avoided the obvious.

Our last stop was at a Denny’s, which wouldn’t have been my choice if I had one. We sat and talked about our old friends from the years before, and about your other friends. I wish I recorded the entire conversation.

The drive back to your place was different than how it always was. We were more talkative than usual, even though we had nothing real to say. We talked about my favorite show of all things, as if those weren’t our last forty minutes together.

You told me not to cry while we were saying our last goodbyes. I couldn’t help but feel a lump in the back of my throat as you kissed me on the cheek while we took our last photos together, or as you held me in your arms for the last time. I tried so hard to keep it together just so my last moment with you would be one I remembered for all the right reasons. I walked back to the car with my eyes dry, so unprepared for what I’d feel the moment I slipped from your vision.

It’s been four hundred and sixty-eight days since I last saw you. Today I hear what’s left of your voice in the form of short sentences and phrases.