Whenever we were apart for awhile, I’d obnoxiously beg her to send me pictures. She would usually blow me off, suggesting if I exposed myself first she’d follow. Once or twice I got a picture back, but more often than not they’d come randomly at times she felt either bad or in love. She always looked so vulnerable in them, covering up her body almost painfully. They were sacrifices, risks, but they were never of the girl I missed and I never looked at them like you’d expect a lonely boy might.
When she was studying in South Africa, she sent me a picture of herself wearing a huge orange hat she had bought to wear to a horse race. I had it on my phone and would steal looks at it during class or when I was with my friends. It was the only picture of the girl I missed, and, although I don’t miss her now, I miss how I felt when I used to look at that picture.