pews in a church.

There was this boy in my sixth-grade classes who I had a crush on. I was twelve maybe, eleven. We would talk about the comics in the newspaper and we'd laugh together during art. One day, he stopped me and asked me for my number. My friend at the time, Alexandra, giggled and ran away, leaving me alone with him. I gave him my number. He called me several days later. I don't remember what we talked about: ice skating, cats, siblings, things of that nature.

My friends didn't think he was right for me: he didn't wear Abercrombie, I guess. I pushed him away. Even though I really did have a crush on him, innocent as it was.

That boy, Casey Raffaelli, died last week.

And I can't help but think of how temporary our connections to other people are. It makes me very sad and angry.

Rest in peace, Casey, I wish I had known you better.