I guess I’ll talk about how we got started.

So basically, it was September in the drama room, and we talked about how serious we thought teacher-on-student sexual assault was.

Then it was October, on the drama sofa, sitting so close I could feel how warm you were.

Then it was November, when we talked about every controversial issue we could think of ’til 3 AM.

Then it was December, when we divulged every secret we had in a genuinely ruthless game of truth or dare we were both determined to win.

Then it was January, and you asked her out. Not me, her.

Then it was February, when we got into our routine, which was this: One of us sent an interesting link, we’d talk about it until we got tired of typing, and Skype until we fell asleep.

March, when we established my “political stance.”

April, when you invited me to my first party and I threw up in your bathtub for two hours. (The next day you apologized for not taking care of me.)

May, when you got busy, and we faded a little bit. June, you graduated and left for the summer.

July, we spoke once.

August, we both came home.

It was September, of this year, when you broke up with her and we kissed for the first time. (I’m sorry I was so awful by the way, I’d never done it before.)

October, we became friends again.

And now, November. I’m left with all these little things, all these little moments that just fill up my brain until I can’t stand to think about them anymore. And I can’t deal with it, you know? We’re very in-between, all the time. And just one more complaint, (well, a complaint that’s mixed with a thank you.) I’m a little mad that you’re just walking around internally crediting yourself with all my firsts, but I’m grateful, too, because I’m glad it’s you who has them. Be careful with them, please.

—By Laura B., 17, British Columbia, Canada