Olivia and I were freshman when we met, introduced through a mutual friend. From the moment we shook hands, by accident or design, we were inseparable.

Our friendship was the kind found only in fictitious novels. We were the sole inhabitants of a fantastical world, and I was invincible. I took care of her: each time her mother abandoned her, I ensured she had clothes to wear, food to eat, and that her diabetes was cared for.

One summer, we went to Oak Island, North Carolina. Olivia feel deeply into teenage puppy love with a boy named Cooper. We left with two more passengers than we arrived with. One was Cooper. The other was an embryo named Audrey.

I stood by my best friend through pregnancy, but her disinterest in my company became more obvious with each passing day.

They live in Virginia now, and Olivia will not graduate high school. I call every once in awhile, to leave a message no one will hear. We have both moved on, but I will always treasure the time we spent together: both of our last days of childhood.