"I'm not going to find my identity in that. I am not mostly a sinner who tries to love. I'm mostly a lover who struggles with sin. I am a lover of God." -- Misty Edwards

I remember the first time I saw you. It was the first day at band camp. I trailed into the courtyard with other freshman flutes from a tour of the campus. At that time returning members had gathered also in the courtyard. Before we broke out the food for our band picnic, we sat down to hear a few words from the Doc. And that was when I saw you. You were reunited joyously with some friends, you had a radiant smile on your face. I don't remember whom you sat with, but I remember your hair: It was short and styled. I have no other words for this because I don't know how to describe it other than it was so cool. I didn't get a glimpse of your face, but I fathomed it was beautiful. You had a graceful, scultped figure. Slender, sleek like a cheetah. I guess I notice these things because I'm a writer, and because of it I like to notice people, people who catch my eye. This isn't awkward; it's just the way it is.

But this isn't the point. Back in high school there were a handfull of people whom I was acquainted with, only acquainted with. They were and still are Erin, Jared, Nathan and Michele. But I wish it was more. I wish it was deeper. I wish I was deeper. I wanted to be more than just what I had. I was blantantly aware of this in high school, but I was also numb. I could survive the days just staring at the board, not saying anything to Erin who sat on my left. Not saying the things I really wanted to say in painting class when they were all there. I tried to stand my ground. I wrote most of them notes the day before Christmas because, as you can see, paper is where I am not afriad. Paper is my superpower. But it was poorly thought out. I kept telling myself that it wouldn't matter: they already had their friends, their churches, they already had bonds elsewhere. I wouldn't matter. So why should I try? It was just be an awkward attempt for nothing.

I still tried, Cammie. When the bell rang, ending school for the 08 year and beginning Christmas break, I finally chocked up enough guts to say something.

"So... yeah we should totally do something over break together," I suggested to Nathan.

He laughed. "You don't know how many peopl have told me that, but I feel bad because I'm going to be away for break."

I laughed. Laughed it off. But it just crushed me. Just crushed me.

The rest of the year was hard. So full of regret and bitterness to my own complacency. I hated it. How many times I had spilled my guts out to my poor sister during many of our Friday night Starbucks runs. How many times had she seen my hot, living tears: real, gritty and unescapable. Too many.

And so now here I was in college with that blazing self knowledge, that burning urge to not fall to that again. I would not be numb. If college was the place to make life long friends, deep and blessed, then by all means I would embrace it, because I was sick of thinking I didn't need people, that I was independent, that I could make it on my own, that I didn't need them. When in reality... I did need them. I am such a human. I need people even though I'm a recluse. I need connection and fellowship. We all do. God made us that way.

So here I was, a little freshman. I had never recalled a more stronger sense towards a particular person to get to know her. Perhaps it was there in high school, I just didn't feel it. I didn't let myself feel it. I don't care how weird or lame this sounds, but I thought and still do think that you were  and still are the coolest person ever. I didn't know your name for the longest time. I almost aspired to make up a name for you just so I could put a name on this impossible thing, but I couldn't. Even I, a writer, could not. Band camp passed me by...

Early September: I woke up one night from an intense, thirsty dream. It was 3am. I lurched out of bed and into the bathroom dizzly. All I remembered about it was its intensity and you were in it. So I breathed a prayer, God, if You want me to meet her, then open up an opprotunity for me to do so.

 And that was what He did. Multiple times. After practice, we'd all be streaming into the band room and I was close enough to say something to you but I didn't. During the away game to Carnegie Mellon, we trickled into the visitors' bleachers and I somehow found myself walking behind you. You looked back at me and I smiled. That was all I could do. I wanted to say something to you but I didn't. Even before the dream, at band camp we were practicing on the stadium football field. I was sitting down and you walked by. I smiled at you and you me. I wanted to say something but I didn't. There was an empty chair next to you, once when we were in the auditorium to watch recordings of our performances. It was so empty, so waiting, so calling. I started at it, petrified, but I walked away and sat in another section down a few rows.

Sarah, why did you do that? A voice asked me, sorrowful and passionate, full of conviction.

I couldn't answer. It was obvious: Fear.

Aren't you tired of this battle? Why do you live like this? When will you get sick of it? When will it break inside? How can you live numbly like this?

I am numbed. I'm numbing myself, I can feel it.

Early October. The 9th. Friday. Another chance. I took it. You perhaps remember an awkward, somewhat familiar person asking you if the seat adjacent to yours was taken, and then sitting uncomfortably for a while before I finally introduced myself. But I remember seeing you, and feeling something push me. Perhaps it was the self who was exhausted of the fight and the battle. The self who was utterly thirsty for friendship. I asked you if it was okay, and then when I sat down, I couldn't help but beam through the whole concert, trying to concentrate on the orchestra, the music recital, but getting distracted with the fact that you, the coolest person ever, the girl who already made my Favorite Persons Lists just because she existed, because she breathed. You breathed. I finally gathered my tattered, scattered courage and introducing myself, finally learning your name. The next song began, and I kept beaming like a star. You were the sweetest person, not just the coolest. And so beautiful, once I finally got to see the whole of your face. I melted. I wanted to hug you the way an overjoyed little kid would at Christmastime, but refrained. We talked more...

It was amazing. I felt like such a little girl: freckles and pig tails with missing teeth, rocking back on her heels and smiling with an ice cream cone asking so excitedly and sincerely, Will you be my friend, my sister?

But that was how I felt. The rest of the night was just cloud 9. I imagined going to the Flyleaf concert in November, the one I wanted to go to so bad, with you and having the best time.

I wish I could say it was all good from there, but it wasn't. I still greet you when I can -- like when we passed each other in the courtyard once upon a nightwalk, or the evening I came back from working out. But last practice I remember seeing you talking to a few other friends and I wanted to chat with you too, but I didn't. I was just a Passerby. How well I had known that name. I just passed by.

Fear.

A while ago I sent a facebook request after much cheering and convincing from an intimate friend of mine. But no response. Did you get it?

Those ideas, those thoughts, those demons all come flying back: She already has her friends. We're in different majors too. She's in Music Ed and I'm English. We're naturally going to be in different buildings, have different loads to worry about, different spheres to live in. She's a sophomore, I'm a freshman. She already has figured it out and made her way. She already has friends.

My sister told me, "But, you don't know that, Sarah. You just don't know. You don't know if she needs a friend just as much as you. You don't know."

"Yes. I don't. I don't know if she even has all the friends in the world. I don't know."

I wish I could end this lengthy letter in a more desirable way, but I have not the intelligence and insight to do so. Thus I'm afriad this end will be fragmented and directionless, but I'll try. I don't know what you think of me now, but my pen is fearless when I am not.

I don't know what to say anymore. I've asked God about this so many times. I've realized how much I do thirst for friendship, and painfully at the same time how afriad I am to find it. I am such a paradox! Or I just lie. How can I claim to be so thirsty when I don't do anything about it? Will a ravenous man turn away from groping around in the trash for a stale crust of bread just because he is afriad of people seeing him? He cannot.

I don't know any more. I am so impatient, so waiting, so wanting, so hurting, but I don't say anything. I keep quiet. I pass by until I become desperate and even that may never happen because a part of myself will think that just knowing your name and being acquainted with you is enough. Another self begs to disagree. This self is the thirsty, the ravenous. So what can I do? Where do I go? Where can I run? Time is precious. Why do I waste it?

But I still pray, I still hope in my hopelessness. This isn't over. I have to try. I still have to pray. I hope someday you will see me fearless. I hope someday you will hear from me, and all about this. I hope someday you will see this and still smile for me.

Always,

Sarah