In the seven minute car ride to the airport, at least six and a half minutes were spent pondering where to grab you for our final hug. Am I supposed to somehow reach over a foot higher than my head to get to your shoulders? I’m wearing platform Converse - is ten inches more doable? But since I’m short, should I be going for the waist? Suddenly I can’t remember what our other hugs have looked like. Or if we’ve hugged.

This is also the part where I’m supposed to be dreading the plane ride. The over seven hours of flights here nearly killed me - I had to give myself a Klonopin to stop hyperventilating, even after a milligram of Xanax. I’m 23 and wish I was an iPad kid. I’d kill for Monsters Inc to alleviate me of reality.

You’re driving and I’m sitting in the passenger seat thinking about this hug. You’re driving and your sunglasses and Rolex watch in this dumbass Corvette make me hate that this decade long friendship has lasted. Your dad dies and you dump all your money on a shiny car. The dead dad thing does not make me forgive you for your awful financial decisions.

(I will never admit to you that I enjoyed riding in it, or waving to the other Corvettes on the road as if we shared a secret.)

You’re driving and it’s dumb - it’s laughable, it’s crazy, it’s a miracle - that a friendship has lasted this long. That the two people in the world who give each other migraines from singing in the car or from refusing to believe that cheesesteaks should NOT be made with provolone cheese; that the two people who need to take seven hour flights to sleep on each other’s couches, are still friends. That I can’t remember if I’ve hugged you, even once.

Calls came from different time zones, at sporadic times and on sporadic occasions. You told me you found your dad’s porn collection when clearing his valuables. You were the first person I called when my friend disappeared with a man and his handlebar mustache into a bush, and I had to walk home alone. Between both of us losing friendships over our own stubbornness and inability to let others in, we had somehow managed to let each other in.

You’re playing 80’s radio. I know you love me because you don’t skip the Elton John songs. You know I love you because I’m not singing this time.

We both know this might be the end for us.

I know because you called me last week to tell me your Air Force application finally went through, and you’re going to be living with your girlfriend near the Kansas base. Kansas is closer, but the girlfriend has had a problem with a female best friend for at least half of our decade. Even when cars’ break lights go on as they bend curves on the highway, you say nothing. And that’s how I know that you know.

We both say nothing.

Is a three second hug too long?

I could tell you a million things in these final minutes. That you were family when my mother herself couldn’t call. That you’re the only person who has let me believe in something greater than myself. That my thoughts turn to you at the smallest reference to your name, or the sight of another tall ginger, or when another person can match my level of sarcasm. That my own boyfriend can’t hold a conversation with me as well as you can.

But we are not those kinds of people. So I sit in your passenger seat and wonder if I can reach your shoulders.

We pull up to the airport and you stop the car, open the door, and get my bags without a word. Then words are said. Somewhere. Far away. Maybe about ten inches above my widow’s peak. I don’t remember what they are, because before I have the chance to walk away, you grab my arm and pull me in. It’s awkward. It’s terrible. You’re practically breaking your back to lean over.

It’s family.

I will never tell you how I write poem after story after letter after run-on sentence about what I would have said to you if I was a different person. If I allowed myself to believe that you needed to hear those words.

But you already know each one. You’ve always known.