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y the time I read these Facebook comments I was one-hundred percent obsessed with and embroiled in the story of Elizabeth Barrer — the girl I’d once cared for deeply, the girl I hadn’t seen for exactly half the time I’d been alive and yet thought more about than almost anything else.

I had just turned thirty and was doing what one does after a big birthday: lamenting my failures.

Liz was feeding Molly fries and talking about all the adventures they were going to have together. She was one of the most confident people I have ever met, always unapologetically herself,” Elle remembers.

But it was around that time that Liz was attending an alternative school, the type, that according to one former student, had “movies” as a class, and beanbags instead of desks.

Figuring out which was the truth would slowly overtake my life. Elle had kept in touch with Liz two or three years longer than I did. Liz would bring Molly, the tiny black and tan Chihuahua mix that she had since she was twelve.

Elle has a memory of Liz that sticks with her: They were in Philly together, sitting on a curb eating Mc Donalds French fries.

I spent most nights in my room with the phone receiver to my ear, talking to Liz, although I’d given up on trying to change her mind about me. We were on the phone when she told me that she wanted to “do it” sooner or later and she had decided she wanted it to be with me because she felt comfortable with me. I don’t know if she thought about what her matter-of-fact declaration would mean to me, but I can still remember the way I felt when she told me. I don’t remember feeling any different having “done it,” only a kind of pride that she was the one it was with. Liz was a digital ghost, and this realization led me to assume that one of two things had happened to her: she was either immensely fulfilled or terribly miserable.

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A marble notebook in my bedroom had the phone numbers of all my camp friends. I remember waking up next to her the morning after, hugging her and then her groaning my name, “,”annoyed that I’d woken her up. She had no My Space account, Snapchat, Twitter, Google Plus, Pinterest… No candid party photos, no Livejournals, no senior thesis, nothing!

Soon I realized that I was looking for someone in particular.

She was one of the “goths.” At camp this meant two things: she wore black clothes and only ever signed up for Dungeons and Dragons.

A school for the kids everyone else had given up on.

When problematic behavior at school and at home persisted, Liz was eventually sent to a stricter lockdown. “I remember her family being that sort of American pie sweet that contrasted her dark side.

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