Past midnight, I look for me in the yellow shirt on a Paris high street, next to you and I think I’m crying a bit. Mid-steak I jumped up from my chair, shouted your moniker at the top of my lungs, and we talked about the Internet, mental health, about women writing, about Paris, and how beautiful and odd it was that I knew so much about two kids I would never meet. I can’t find the picture now in the digital chaos, but I do find a little monster lurking in the shadows. Oh Heather, how terrified you’ve made me of the word relapse. How truly spectacular it was to know you the way I did.