You’re in my dreams a lot. You’re peppered throughout them at least. Usually we’re friends, talking about old memories and laughing, forgiving each other for wrongdoings, usually sitting too close to one another. Last night’s hurt, though. It was short and bitter. One of your friends mentioned going to your birthday party—it’s coming up—and followed it with a snide “You’re not invited.” I’m sorry, but I hit our friend. Twice. And hard. “I tried, dammit,” I cried to him. “I fucking tried.”