1. The New Yorker. She smokes cigarettes. But only when she drinks, she says. Her apartment is paid for by her parents and she talks about the horrors of gentrification as if she has a clue. The first time you kiss her, it doesn’t taste like me. Instead, it’s all tobacco and pollution. You remember California. You remember blue skies and innocence and paranoia, even. Never wanting anything that could hurt. She tastes like New York City. This haunts you.

2. The Quiet One. She never raises her voices or cries or does anything extraordinary. Remember when I was PMSing and you showed me Dr. Horrible’s Sing-Along Blog and I sobbed asking WHY you would show it to me? The Quiet One would never do that. She smiles. She nods. She might giggle. Once. Only slightly.

3. The Better Artist. She’s just so crafty. All the things I couldn’t do, she does to perfection. Her handwriting is impeccable. She probably does calligraphy in her free time. Every line is gorgeous. Every stroke is just right.

4. The Pretty One I Don’t Want To See. Maybe I caught her once. A photo with you. Something I wish was just a dream. You look like you’re posing in a catalog. I close my eyes. It’s still you and me.

5. The One You Love. This is hard. It is hard to know you loved another person after me. I am sure you read things I have written and it’s not a pleasant journey. I have loved, or thought I did, or tried to. Or maybe just obsessed over situations. I think about love and what I know it means and should I be embarrassed it only exists when I was 18? There is one, if not many ones, you have said you love who aren’t me.

That is the worst to believe.