Lately, I have been thinking about what I wrote about your death—about how even if I traveled the entire earth and touched every single thing, none of them would be you. I realize how wrong I had been about that. You are still alive all around me—our shared blood forever coarsing through my fingertips. Loving you is the softest, best part of me. The part I wouldn’t trade for anything. Maybe I can’t grab a beer with you anymore, or share disgusting foods with you, or sneak cigarettes with you in parking lots. Maybe I can’t scold you for being an asshole sometimes, or for not wearing your motorcycle helmet, or for having too many margaritas at Mariscos Las Palmas. Maybe I can’t take back telling you it was okay for you to skip my graduation, I can’t take back not trying hard enough to convince you not to move, I can’t take back never answering your last text message. Maybe I lost all of those things, but I haven’t lost you. You’re everywhere, in everything. All around me. The best parts.