Dear Kenton,

We didn’t get this far in our conversations, but I really like the musical Hamilton. Recently, I’ve found music to be a wonderful coping mechanism when it comes to processing your death. That being said, I hope you don’t mind that I’m telling the part of your story I got to read. I hope I do it justice.

Merriam-Webster defines “dead” as “no longer alive or living: no longer having life.” I still struggle to use that word to describe you, because you exuded energy wherever you went. I don’t completely remember how we met, but I’m pretty sure it involved you unabashedly walking up to me and introducing yourself one night while I was sitting in my floor lobby stuffing my face with Taco Shop and slogging through homework. I remember you asking if I was a farm girl because of my firm handshake. I’m glad you thought it was firm, because your own strong, enthusiastic handshake nearly crushed my tiny fingers. While I am not, in fact, a farm girl, my dad grew up on a farm, and so we bonded over Nebraska and agriculture. And even though I’m horrible with names, yours stuck with me because I only knew one other person with that name—my childhood pastor. Every time I thought about it, I had to laugh, because you were as goofy and carefree as he was somber, and the two of you looked nothing alike.

A couple weeks later, I passed you on the quad on the way to my Tuesday afternoon Bible study. We said hello, and you decided to come with me. On the way, I learned that you were raised Catholic and had been to Christian Challenge several times. You were a bit quirky—you bought a Mountain Dew out of a vending machine and gave me your change, just because. But you hit it off with my current pastor, and returned the Bible I lent you the first chance you got. While we didn’t hang out much after that, I still you around campus and around our dorm pretty regularly.

I’ll do my best not to forget the last time I saw you. It will remind me that I don’t always know when my last conversation with someone might be. I’d just gotten back to McMindes from a late-night Sonic run. Looking back—maybe I’m just trying to piece things together in my own mind, because I’m pretty sure this was the night you died—you seemed a bit off, but I know I was also pretty exhausted, and just chalked it up to the general out-of-it-ness that everyone hits this time of year. You’d forgotten my name by now (don’t worry, without the pastor connection, I probably would have forgotten yours, too) and our conversation went something like this:

“Hi, Kenton.”

“Hey! It’s . . . Libby, right?”

“Nope.”

“Shoot, I’m sorry. You look like a Libby.”

“Nope, not Libby. It’s Nicole.”

“Nicole! Right. I’ll remember that for next time.”

“Sounds good.”

“See you later, Nicole!”

“See ya!”

I know I’m a sensitive person, an idealist and optimist living in a far-from-ideal world. I know that many people would say I am overreacting to the death of someone I barely knew. And maybe they’re right. But as a young person—someone who stereotypically thinks they’re invincible (I don’t, by the way)—death is a foreign concept I’m still struggling to completely understand.All four of my grandparents are still alive, a blessing I’m acutely aware of, since I know it’s only a matter of time until that’s not the case. While I know people who have attempted suicide, I am not close to anyone who has actually been a victim of it. So my mind is still coming to terms with the fact that, at least in this life, we will not have a “next time,” and I won’t get to “see you later”. I am still reckoning with the fact that you are totally and completely gone from this earth. You had such a big personality, and I think you made an impression on more people than you realized, including me.

Here’s to seeing you in Heaven, my friend.