I was lying on my bed, my blinds closed in the early evening.

My black hair drooped on the sides of my face. This was a few days after Rosie died. My hair was greasy. I was wearing the same outfit for four days. The outfit I wore when we went hiking.

I stared at my rug. My door opened. It was mom. She stood in the doorway holding a plate with spaghetti and toast on it. I stared at her feet. I could feel her staring at me.

Finally she said, "Ellie?"
I said nothing.
She said, "I brought you dinner."
I didn't respond.
She stood there for a moment then sighed and picked up my plate from lunch which I also haven't touched, and placed my dinner plate down in it's place. She gave me a quick glance and left.

That night I didn't cry. I didn't do anything. I didn't touch my plate, didn't open the blinds, didn't wash my hair, didn't change my clothes, didn't speak or look at people.

I'm lying.

I have cried nearly all day, everyday. How couldn't I? It was my fault. I loved her, she was my best friend. People called us "lesbian lovers". Which got me mad because it was stupid. I am a lesbian, and everyone knows. I don't care. Who cares.

I care.

It was stupid. Stupid stupid stupid. They always call me "faggot" even though the term "fag" is targeted toward males. I Googled it. Rosie said, "Don't let those dorks get to ya. Who cares." Then I would say you're right and then flip the kids off. Because who cares.

That night, the night of my flip off, a month and a half before Rosie died, we hung out at my place.

She pulled on a thread on my blanket while I leaned against the foot of the bed. "You ever been kissed?" She asked. "What?" "Has anyone kissed you?" I shook my head. "No," I said. "Have you been kissed?" I asked. "No." She said, pulling on the thread. I nodded and stared at my feet.

She stopped and looked at me.

"Wanna?" She asked. She spoke in a different way. I liked it. I could never speak like that. "What?" "Do? You? Wanna?" She repeated. "Wanna what? Get kissed? I guess a little bit, yes." She nodded and returned to the thread.

She looked at me and said, "We can."
I said, "What?"
She said, "Stop saying that."
I replied, "Sorry."
She replied, "It's okay."

"But... We can. If ya wanna." I turned my head and looked at her. I just realized how close we were. She was only about eight inches away. "Kiss?" I asked. "Kiss." She said. I stared at her. She stared at me. I said, "Okay." Then she said, "Okay." Then we leaned in. And we kissed.

And now whenever I tell my future children- if I ever have any- about my first kiss, they'll ask, "Who's that, mom?" And I would have to say, "She was my best friend." And then I would probably walk away or start crying. Or both.