Memories, From Her Passenger Seat

1.

I am not sure if it is completely odd or perfectly normal to share something this deeply personal in a space like this. Most people, I think, tuck these things away in journals—written for no one but themselves. But here I am, offering it up for others to see, despite some hesitation. 

It’s not the idea of exposing my truth to distant acquaintances that unsettles me. Actually, I find it far scarier to bare my soul to the people who truly love me, the ones who knew how much Camille meant to me. 

I don’t fear judgment. Not of my writing, not of my perception of it all, not of the stories I choose to share. What I do fear, a little, is how my words will land with those who loved Camille as deeply as I did. 

As I do. 

I also worry how Camille herself would feel about the things I have to say, despite everything I write being overwhelmingly positive. But I knew her. I knew her well. And I know she’d love me even more for trying, even if the words never quite capture her. The truth is, no one can do justice to someone like Camille. Not with a lifetime of words, let alone the time I’ve had to write this. 

So why even do this? 

I guess because as much as this feels impossible, it feels necessary. Because maybe I want to reignite her memory, bring her back to life in the only way I know how. Because maybe she deserves to be spoken about, written about, remembered. Because I miss her. And returning to this writing, again and again, is the closest that I have to spending time with her now. Maybe I want people to bear witness to who she was to me and what has been lost. 

Maybe I want people to bear witness to me.

But describing Camille is like trying to explain what it feels like to sit outside on a cold winter night, huddled near a crackling fire, the icy wind carrying embers and smoke past your face— to someone who has never spent a night outdoors.

It’s like trying to explain the magic of playing make-believe as a child, so immersed in your imaginary world that reality slips away for a while. Or like revealing a time you cried tears of joy– all of the circumstances that led up to it, the visceral welling of emotion in your chest, just before the flood. It’s like trying to explain your deepest, most aching heartbreak to someone who has never loved. How a sunny, breezy day feels on your skin in the early spring after months of gray. How your favorite music touches your soul. 

She was more than language can hold.

Still, what I can do is tell you about the Camille that I knew. The Camille who changed my life. I did my best to explain who she was to me, and how she blessed my life, at her Celebration of Life. The people who loved her the most heard me do my best to honor her. That’s what matters most, I think. 

But today marks exactly one year since Camille died. April 11, 2024 at 11:16 PM. I have had one year to miss her. One year to cry. One year to remember. 

And while I don’t think it’s possible to fully explain my love for her– or how rare it is for an absolute firecracker of a human like her to burst onto the scene of existence– and while my confidence certainly hasn’t grown enough in this last year to believe that I can find the right words… I am going to try.

I’ll start at the beginning.

2.

I have never been someone with a big, tight-knit group of friends. When I was a child, I had several close friendships, but as I got older, the circle narrowed. I always seemed to connect deeply with only one or two people at any given time. I never had boyfriends. My calendar wasn’t packed with family events. It was always just… my friends. 

So I would spend weekdays, weekends, and countless sleepovers with one or two best friends who became my whole world. Until, inevitably, some emotionally charged teenage dramatics would bring it all crashing down. 

There were a few outlier years when I was part of a group. But even when this was the case, I always felt like I was on the fringes. Like my presence was temporary and my inclusion was conditional. I felt lucky to be invited to places, as if my membership could be revoked at any moment. Whether that was the truth of the matter is beside the point– that’s just how I’ve always felt.

3.

Camille and I went to the same high school, and she was someone I knew by reputation long before I ever actually knew her. To me, she was the cool girl– pretty and effortlessly girly. Jet-black hair. A constellation of ear piercings. She was the girl whose back was covered in tattoos even though we were only teenagers.  The girl whose name drifted through the hallways, always attached to memorable stories. Everyone knew of Camille. But for the first three and a half years of high school, she and I were just two people orbiting the same universe without ever really colliding.

The first time we had any kind of encounter was at a high school football game. I’d gone with her sister, who I was close with during our sophomore year. At some point, we were asking around for a lighter– God knows what for–  when suddenly, Camille popped up from the bleachers out of nowhere, like she’d materialized from the crowd.

“You need a what?” she asked, amusement lacing her tone, assumedly seizing the opportunity to gather a little intel on her sister. Nevermind the fact that Camille herself had undoubtedly had plenty of her own experiences with lighters by then. Her sister brushed her off, and that was that. We locked eyes, but we didn’t even speak. 

There were a few other near-interactions after that—once at her house (again, hanging out with her sister), and another at a mutual friend’s get-together. But they were just passing moments. The kind you barely notice. And yet—I remember them.

Then came senior year. Our orbits finally aligned. We had our first and only class together: Economics.

It was our final semester of senior year. I had just had a brutal falling out with my two closest friends. I felt unmoored. Convinced I’d spend the rest of senior year as a lonely outcast, just waiting for graduation to offer me a fresh start. 

But somehow, through the power of a shared passion for economics (not), Camille and I found each other. I wish I could remember more about how it all began–who talked to who first and what was said. But, all I really remember is eventually putting myself out on a limb and inviting her to the nail salon. I had a coupon so pedicures would be free for us both. She mentioned she’d never had one before, which I found a bit perplexing.

But she showed up.  And just like that we had our first real “hang.” I was nervous to become friends with her. I figured it would fizzle out. She’d hang out with me once, and then go back to her world once she realized I wasn’t cool enough, funny enough, or interesting enough.

I couldn’t have been more wrong.

4.

Our bond was immediate– comfortable, profound, and somehow already permanent. It didn’t take long before Camille started giving me rides home from school everyday. We tackled school projects together, had frequent bathroom meetups to debrief about the day’s happenings, and sat next to each other in class without fail.

Outside of school, driving became a hallmark of our friendship. It was a hallmark of Camille. She loved to drive. She always had a giant SUV –never a cute little car. She wasn’t a fan of those. We would spend hours on the road, Camille behind the wheel, me riding shotgun. She drove 100% of the time, and never, ever asked me for gas money.

She was constantly selling her clothes at Rag-O-Rama to fund our gas and cigarette supply. They never wanted to buy my stuff, but hers? They always bought hers. Of course they did– her stuff was cute. So she’d cash in, fill up the tank, and off we’d go. Sometimes we had destinations– parties, parks, late night food runs. But just as often, we were driving for the sake of driving. No plan, no end goal. Just the road, the music, and us. 

Camille was a wild child, in big ways and small. She was reckless, radiant, and full of mischief, even in the smallest moments. She had a habit of randomly yelling “Grab the wheel!” mid-drive, and without waiting to see if I actually would, she’d start texting with both hands, eyes glued to her phone, leaving me scrambling to yank the car back into position. This was 50% because she wanted to text one of her trillion friends back, and 50% for the bit. Between that and the unexpected “Punch Buggy” and “Copper Chopper” sneak attacks, it’s a miracle I never launched into a nervous breakdown.

I’d never had a friend so brave, confident, and hilarious as her. Painfully hilarious. No one else had her special brand of humor. It was in-your-face and outrageous, but somehow also incredibly nuanced. The kind of funny that made you gasp or cover your mouth with your hand in shock, or look at her like she was completely unhinged, but in the best possible way. In the How the hell does she come up with this stuff? kind of way. I was so drawn to her–  this outgoing, popular girl who didn’t seem afraid of anything. She made every single moment fun. Every moment with her held some small gift.

After school one day, we were driving through a parking lot, headed to a drive thru to satisfy some fast food craving, when suddenly Camille slammed on the gas and sped across the lot. She came to a screeching halt in front of the cutest boy I’d ever seen, casually walking to his car. I was terrified of boys, but Camille? Not even a little. Camille liked boys just as much as boys liked Camille. She tossed him a flirty giggle, flicked her hair and asked him all sorts of questions about what he’d been up to lately like it was the most natural thing in the world. Despite being much older than us, he looked totally caught off guard by her– like this bold, beautiful girl had just fallen from the sky. Afterwards, she didn’t even bother explaining to me how she knew him. Talking to the cutest boy in the world was just another random Tuesday in Camille World.

In no time, we became two completely chaotic little peas in a pod. Inseparable.  I couldn’t remember what life felt like without her. She even brought me to her job interview once (definitely didn’t get that job).  And I didn’t really realize it at the time, but it was only the beginning. We would choose each other again and again, for as long as the universe allowed us.

For years, we made the kind of memories that define girlhood in its purest, most reckless, most exhilarating form. Belly button piercings, movie nights on our parents sofas, makeup before parties, roaming high school hallways, spending whole days tanning at whatever neighborhood pool we could sneak into, dyeing Camille’s hair red on a whim despite her having just taken it from black to blonde a month before. Classic.

Some of our teenage adventures were probably a little too risky for even a teen drama series. A little too edgy to write here, honestly. But Lana Del Rey would definitely allude to them on some Born to Die-adjacent album about reckless girlhood. 

And even though we were often surrounded by other people, it still felt like it was just the two of us. We were always in the back of each other’s minds. Once, she was looking for me at a party and couldn’t find me. Someone told her I was in a room with a boy. She went to the door, tried to open it– and it was locked. She started yelling my name. When I didn’t answer, she pounded the door. Hard. She was relentless–  terrified that something bad was happening. She probably would have taken it off its hinges if I hadn’t come around the corner with a huge question mark on my face. 

Because at the end of the night– no matter what the night brought– it was always going to be Camille and me, packing our bags and heading off together. When it was finally time to go, in those dark hours of the morning, the only question that mattered was: Where is Camille? 

We spent a lot of time chasing trouble, her and I. There were many late nights, boys texting our phones, last minute party invites, bar sneak-ins, strong drinks, and tattoo shops (always for her). 

We were both numbing something. But we were also finding something– freedom, wildness, joy.  

And for every night spent in the dark, there was a day spent in the sun. Just the two of us, having the time of our lives simply because we were together. Most of the time, that felt like all we really needed. 

Camille always loved being outside. She knew all the local hikes. We’d hit the trails often, and sometimes she’d find a spot a few hours north that piqued her interest. We’d drive up to the Blue Ridge Mountains and spend a day climbing to the top of a peak. I think nature was her serenity. Her medicine. She never said it that way—but she always made time to be in it. She’d go alone just as often as she’d go with friends.

Once, we drove down to the river– our usual spot for swimming and cliff jumping in the summer– but it was fall. October, maybe November. The water was frigid. The sky was gray. And yet, for some reason, we jumped in. Swam across the icy water. Climbed the cliffs. And jumped. I don’t know what got into us. But whatever it was had only Camille and I in mind. We were the only souls on the river that day. It was unforgettable. Something I never would have done on my own. Maybe she wouldn’t have, either.

5.

High school graduation came and went. On the Fourth of July that summer, I jumped in her car late at night, as I so often did. I didn’t know she had a surprise in store. She drove south, which wasn’t typical, and as always, she wasn’t mapping her way. Camille never used navigation. She always knew where she was going.

After about 20 minutes of dodging my questions, we wound down a narrow street that, without warning, spilled us out right into the heart of Atlanta. A panoramic view of the city unfolded around us, lit up against the night, fireworks exploding across the sky. We were driving straight into them. 

It was the most magnificent thing I had ever seen. I’d lived just half an hour from the city my whole life, but sitting beside Camille, I felt like I was seeing it for the first time– lit up and alive. I felt this rush of gratitude. Not just for the view, but for her—the friend who always seemed to find the magic in the world. I had the most exciting, spontaneous, and fearless best friend in the world. One who would drag me out late at night and show me things I never would have found on my own, like fireworks over a city I barely knew.

That feeling, the wonder of being with her, never left.

6.

My first year of college took me four hours from home. I made friends, even had a boyfriend, but I wasn’t okay. I was lost, untethered, completely adrift. And making extremely questionable choices. I drove home often, searching for grounding, for familiarity. 

Camille was always there. 

Once, after a weekend visit, I sat in the driver’s seat of my car, parked in her driveway, saying goodbye. I was about to make the long drive back when, out of nowhere, Camille jumped into the passenger seat.

“I’m coming with you.” 

Her mom, standing nearby, was not thrilled about this sudden “plan.” But with Camille, once her mind was made up, that was it. So off we went. 
She stayed in my college town for three months before heading back home. And just like that, I had my best friend with me again. The whole thing might sound crazy and impulsive– and it was. But that wouldn’t be the last time Camille jumped in the car and went. She spent a good portion of her life doing exactly that. And eventually, it started taking her to places far more beautiful than Statesboro, Georgia.

7.

After that year away at University, I wasn’t happy. I moved back home and enrolled in the same community college as Camille. I needed to recalibrate. I needed my best friend. 

So, for a short while, we went to college together. We even searched for an apartment– toured a few places– but landlords kept backing out, wary of how young we were. Smart.

Instead, we had endless sleepovers at each other’s houses, mostly at mine, where I lived with my mom. It was a tiny, old home, full of antique furniture and my mom’s carefully curated odds and ends. The three of us would order takeout and binge-watch TV shows together, not even minding that the couch was too small for all of us.

My bedroom was in the basement– a single open room, that honestly, was so cool. There was a bright yellow daybed where I slept, and an elevated bed by the window where Camille would climb up and crash. We even had a private entrance, which meant I could sneak outside to smoke without stinking up the house or alerting my mom– convenient for my pot-smoking days, which Camille didn’t usually partake in.

At night, we’d crawl into our respective beds and stay up talking for hours. We’d dream about the future, about the adventures awaiting us beyond the edges of our hometown. One day, we swore, we’d jump in the car and just go– no destination, no plan, no return date. Just us. 

That year, we were more attached than ever. It was the best and the worst of times. I moved back home with the intention of finding stability, but at first, our escapism only intensified. Two girls don’t always bounce back from the kind of chaos Camille and I were inflicting– mostly on ourselves. But God, did we have fun. We talked about that year for the rest of our lives. 

It wasn’t all nonsense and revelry. We also did things. We went places. Camping in the forest. Trips to her beach house in North Carolina. Savannah, St. Simon’s Island. We’d ride our bikes, order ice cream, watch movie after movie. 

That was another Camille thing. She loved movies. As the sun was setting– whether we were at home in the suburbs or tucked away in some beach town– she’d drive us to a Redbox kiosk. We’d stand there alone in the fading light, carefully choosing what to watch that night. She liked everything – from the most gut-wrenching horror to movies so sad they left you completely devastated.

But no matter how heartbreaking the film, Camille never cried. She was always tough like that. Camille didn’t cry.

8.

There were darker things happening beneath the surface back then– things I didn’t talk about. I struggled with self harm when I was younger. And Camille noticed–once–at a party. I had been drinking and wasn’t exactly present. I was wearing a flowy shirt, and when I propped my head on my hands—as I always do—the sleeves slid down my arms.

She saw the marks.

Without saying a word, she reached over and tugged my sleeve back down. She kept doing it throughout the night, quietly making sure I stayed covered, watching out for me without making a scene. She was stressed about it—I could tell. But she didn’t say anything to me afterward. And I certainly wasn’t going to bring it up. 

But my mom did, not long after. She told me that Camille had told her. 

Up until then, Camille and I hid everything from our parents. We never ratted eachother out for anything. I felt this strange, uncomfortable sting of betrayal. I stood there staring at my reflection in the bathroom mirror, feeling entirely exposed, as my mom stood in the doorway looking in at me.

I never said a word to Camille. Never told her I knew. But I did know. And eventually, I knew that it spoke volumes.

I knew, in my heart, how much love for me that required of her. She wanted to speak up for me. To tell someone who would always have my best interest at heart. Someone who would take care of me. Because if I wasn’t going to take care of myself, she was going to make sure someone did.

She was going to.

---

9.

After the first couple years of our twenties, our lives started to diverge. I was settling into something steady back in our hometown—committing to school, falling in love with my now-husband, getting sober. For the first time, the future didn’t feel like something I had to outrun. I was building something solid, something that felt safe. But for Camille, adventure still called. And she had to answer.

Looking back, I realize now that Camille always knew who she was. Driving wasn’t just a bored suburban teenager thing for her. Those late-night cruises, windows down, music blasting, chasing the moon down empty highways with nothing but time ahead of us—that wasn’t a phase. That was a blueprint.

All those nights in high school, circling the same streets of our sleepy town, singing along to whatever was on her playlist, laughing until our sides hurt—I didn’t know it then, but she was practicing for something bigger.

All that talk about road-tripping and never looking back? She meant it. And one day, she actually did it. She got in the car… and she drove away.

10.

Her twenties took her everywhere: California, Utah, Colorado, New Mexico, Montana, Idaho, Texas, and the list goes on. She’d plant roots for a while—just long enough to find a rhythm—before, on some random Tuesday, she’d pack her things and hit the road again. Just her and her dog, Sahara. Off to the next place.

Even back in high school, Camille was always pulled toward a different kind of life. She’d drive us to bonfires in the middle of nowhere, Georgia fields stretching around us, country music blaring through her speakers—music I hated, by the way. Sometimes she’d fall for some cowboy-ish guy, and she’d drag me into Western wear stores, admiring boots and hats like they were pieces of fine art. I thought it was just another one of her phases. In college, we’d go to country bars in our hometown and order drinks neat. She preferred that to the swanky Atlanta bars with pretty cocktails, hands down.

It wasn’t a phase.

Her twenties were painted in desert tones. The West was hers—the mountains, the red rocks, the dusty roads. She road-tripped to Moab, found hidden swimming holes, learned to climb, chased sunsets, slept under stars. She curated a stunning collection of vintage cowboy boots– large enough that she was turning quite a profit by buying and selling them. Her home, her wardrobe, her spirit—it all became distinctly Western. And the tattoos didn’t stop, either. Eventually, she was covered in them, head to toe. Each one beautiful. Each one, her.

As we grew into different versions of ourselves, our friendship shifted too. It became a little less constant, a little less all-consuming. But it was still there. Always there. Steady, quiet, and deeply understood—through every twist in the road.

11.

And before it had been too long, she would hop in the car and come back for a while. She always came home. For a week, a month even, sometimes. 

I’d always be there.

I don’t know how many times she drove across the country, from wherever she had wandered, just to come back to Atlanta. I never really paused to count. 

But when I close my eyes I can see her driving.

Driving through the desert at night, window down, music up, cigarette in hand, Sahara stretched out in the back. Just… driving. 

Like she could be out there right now. Somewhere on the highway. Coming home to me in the middle of the night.

12.

Our friendship evolved again as we got older. It became less about escaping the world together, less about running from the pressures of life, and more about showing up for it. Supporting each other through real things. The hard parts. 

Our bond had always been rooted in something real, but now it was grounded in a deeper understanding of each other. We had a shared history, yes– but we also had a renewed appreciation for who we’d become. And no matter where she disappeared to, or how far she wandered…  we never felt far from each other. Because we kept choosing each other. Again and again.

In our late twenties, I found myself in awe of Camille all over again– but this time, it was different. When we were younger, she was that striking girl with tattoos down her back, the one who seemed untouchable.  The girl I admired from afar. Who stood out from everyone else.  But now, the admiration I had for her wasn’t just about how cool she was or how different she seemed; it was about how deeply she impacted my life. 

Camille became everything to me again. I started to notice how much brighter my world felt with her in it. How desperately I needed that brightness. Depended on it. She always reminded me that even as an adult– caught up in responsibilities, stress, and the weight of growing up– that there is always still room for joy. For ridiculousness. For finding beauty in the small things. Like savoring your first cup of coffee in the morning, which she always made for both of us when we were together. Taking bubble baths and putting on perfume, just to smell good for yourself. Choosing to hang out in the backyard instead of inside, picking grass and sunshine over cushions and air conditioning.

She was a living example of what it meant to keep your inner child alive. To loosen your grip. To stop taking everything so seriously. Her presence brought a lightness that I didn’t always know how to find on my own. I still don’t. She made me laugh- big, unrestrained, joyful laughter– every time we talked. She made everything feel fun– just like she always had. And I looked up to her so much for it.

And one day, I realized how much I missed her.

13.

I had been living in New York City for nearly a year. I wasn’t there for her drives home anymore. Plus, her parents had moved to Scotland. One of her sisters to France. The anchors that used to pull her back to Atlanta had shifted. We hadn’t crossed paths in so long, and one day, I noticed just how much time had passed.

The girl I would call on my walk home from work each day. The one I spent lazy, slow weekend mornings FaceTiming over coffee. The one who never hung up until I was ready, even if that meant hours. When was the last time I’d heard her laugh in person?

I booked a flight to Austin for Winter Break. Camille wanted me to come for the whole week– she knew I wasn’t working– but I told her I couldn’t swing it. I felt buried under a list of things I “should” be doing. Work, the apartment, all of the errands I’d been putting off. She didn’t push, but I could tell she was disappointed. 

We made the most of it. We went thrifting, ate at local restaurants. We drove with the windows down through Dirty Sixth– Camille behind the wheel, of course.  We lay by the river, her playlist humming, Sahara curled up next to us. We watched TV shows on her giant couch—this time, finally big enough for three (two girls and a dog). We walked the trails near her house, just us. It felt like old times, and also something new. The rhythm had changed but our connection was the same.

I had been sleeping in her guest room every night, which she’d offered when I arrived. But on the last night of my trip, just before bed, she looked at me and said, “So are we ever going to have a sleepover, or are you really going to sleep in the other room every night?” She said it with a hint of teasing, but it was the sweetest thing I’d ever heard.

She wanted closeness. She always had. And so had I. She just had the honesty to say it out loud.

I left that trip realizing that I loved just about everything about her. Everything about who she’d become. The way she could spend hours by the river. Her spontaneous streak. Her softness and her strength. How eating in front of Sahara and not giving her some was a cardinal sin in her house. Her taste in heartbreaking TV shows. The tattoos that kept coming. Her love of photo booths. Her habit of taking pictures of even the most mundane moments. How she would always send audio messages and leave voicemails. Her appreciation for a clean and organized space. Her random bursts of dancing and ninja moves. The way she’d complain all day about working out, and then finally just do it. Her exact taste in dumb Tik Toks– identical to mine. How she liked saying lovey dovey things to each other. How she would take dressing up to go out seriously, even if it was just the two of us. How every boy she liked looked exactly the same, and how we’d crack up about it, comparing them side by side. The way she would never sit and dwell, but always got up and went somewhere. Found the sun in her life when it refused to find her. 

She was the friend who gave me energy. Who refueled my battery, never drained it. The one I wanted to tell everything to– whether the news was good, bad, or in between. 

And for once, I told her. Not with the tears or the big monologue it probably deserved, but in the best way I could at the time: I told her that she meant the world to me. That our friendship had deepened in ways I never saw coming. That I couldn’t have anticipated just how important she’d become.

Maybe I stumbled through the words. Maybe it wasn’t perfect. But at least I said something.

I was so proud of her. Proud of us. And more than anything, proud to call her my best friend.

I didn’t know, when she dropped me off at the Austin airport, that she’d be gone not two months later.

14.

It was a Wednesday, and I woke up to a strange text. I read it in bits and pieces, somehow unable to process the whole thing at once. “Cam went into anaphylactic shock last night… Unresponsive… In the ICU… Hoping for a change in the next few days.”

I thought it was a wrong number. I couldn’t even fathom who was texting me something like this. Until I realized the text was from Camille’s sister. And “Cam” meant Camille. 

Everything felt insane. Urgent. Unreal. Cue the incessant googling. I was naive. I thought if someone went into a coma, you’d have time. You’d wait—maybe days, weeks—for them to wake up. My worries were: Will she wake up? And when she does, will she be the same? I should have been asking myself: Should I hurry before it’s too late?

I booked my flight for Friday morning. I would land in Austin at 10:30AM. I’d be by her side.

Over the next 24 hours, I stayed in touch with her sister and her friends at the hospital. Some updates conflicted, some were confusing. I could tell no one fully understood what was happening. No one knew what to expect.

Late Thursday night, the night before I was supposed to fly out, I couldn’t sleep. I’d been crying nonstop. I kept texting Camille’s phone, carefully choosing my words. Writing what I thought she would read when she woke up in the hospital. Probably disoriented. Probably scared.

And then my phone rang. I answered.

“Hello?”

There was a long pause. Shaky, silent, heavy.

I knew what it meant. I knew what was coming next.

“She’s gone.”

15.

Camille died in the hospital, surrounded by family and friends. She was 29.

I still went to Austin the next morning. I landed, rented a car, picked up flowers and food for her family, and drove to her house. 

There was fear in me when I knocked on that door. What should I say? What if I cry? What if the energy– devastation inside–  is so overwhelming I can’t handle it?

But I quickly learned that none of those fears were real. I learned that there are no right or wrong words in mourning and loss. I learned that crying is perfectly okay. That people are meant to come together in times like this. I learned that Camille’s people—her family, her friends—are, and always will be, mine, too. That’s what love does.

I spent those days with the people who were as in love with her and enamored by her as I was. People who knew her like I did. Who saw her and chose her, for all of the right reasons.

16.

After a few months, losing Camille became unbearably difficult. Everything before that had been hard too, of course. 

Camille dying just 12 hours before my plane would land in Austin– the place I thought I’d be arriving to be by her side.

That morning, feeling convinced my Uber to the airport would crash. Oddly paranoid that death was coming for me, too.

Standing in the airport at 5AM, sick to my stomach. 

Boarding a plane even though she was already gone, because it felt wrong not to go. Not to be there right away.

Spending the next week in her city. In her house. The same places I’d been just two months before, with her. How wrong it felt. How empty it all seemed.

Flying home with her coffee mug, the one that matches mine. One of my students complimenting it the next day. 

A month later, when another sweet sixth grader asked “Do you have a best friend? What’s her name?”

Those weeks that followed, when all I wanted to do was talk about her. Say her name. Tell anyone who would listen how special she was.

Knowing that those are thoughts you have to keep to yourself when you’re in the copy room at work. Or checking out at the grocery store. Or exchanging polite hellos with the neighbors.

For the first few months, all I wanted to do was miss her out loud.

Until one day, I couldn’t anymore.

Something shifted around the three-month mark. The sadness stopped playing nice. And I could no longer contain it. It lived at the surface, tears brimming in my eyes at all times. The slightest mention of her cracked me. Sent the tears (and me) right over the edge. 

So I started writing.

Reflections

I’ll never know what I did right in my past lives to be one of the Universe’s chosen few in this one—who got to know her like I did. I hope so intensely that I did enough while she was here. That she knew how much she meant to me. That hope feels like a need. Like oxygen. I need her to have known how much I loved her.

This constant, aching sense lives in me now. It tells me it’s been way too long since I’ve seen her, talked to her, laughed with her, hugged her, bickered with her, rolled my eyes at her, cheered up at her FaceTime call. And I know it’ll only get longer. It’s an awful, specific ache of being away from your person— and knowing that you’ll never see them again. 

Camille wasn’t perfect. That goes without saying—none of us are. Least of all me. There were times I raised an eyebrow at her choices, wondered what the hell she was thinking.

We drifted a little during our mid twenties. Nothing dramatic. Just….slightly out of sync. We were leading different lives. I’d settled down—engaged to be married, teaching, focused on structure. She was more nomadic, building a successful social media career, still chasing wonder. 

For a short while, I let myself wonder if we’d outgrown each other. And I’ll admit—there were times I let myself believe that my life was somehow more “on track” than hers. Like I had found my way and she was still lost. I thought less of her sometimes. I’m not proud of that.

But Camille never stopped showing up. Her love never wavered. And eventually, I saw what I hadn’t before: I wasn’t ahead—I was insecure. And insecurity has a way of distorting everything. Making you act like someone you’re not. It makes you small.  

As I grew more grounded and open, it allowed our friendship to bloom again—stronger, deeper, realer. I realized how alike we were in all the ways that counted. We both valued a laugh over almost anything. We craved joy, honesty, depth. We chased adventure and put our loved ones first. We could be 100% ourselves 100% of the time. No masks. No posturing. Just us– flawed and open and real. 

The things I once questioned became the very things I loved most. Her unpredictability. Her boldness. Her unfiltered spirit. Her refusal to conform. The quirks? Pure charm. And that charm? Magic.

I used to think Camille had walls up. That she was tough and unshakable. That the real her lived somewhere inside, harder to reach.

Maybe because from the day we met, she was the one driving– literally and figuratively. She picked the music, the people, the places. I followed her everywhere. Sat in her passenger seat. Smoked her cigarettes. Even followed her to her community college. Maybe it’s because she didn’t cry—not once, not even on the phone—until we were twenty-nine. I saw that confidence and power, and I mistook it for hardness.

But Camille was never hardened.

I was.

Looking back, I see how deeply she wanted to be close to me. And how often I was the one who wasn’t available. Sometimes, in the ways that mattered most. Emotionally. Energetically. I was the one who kept my inner world sealed off. I would vent or joke or complain, but real vulnerability? I didn’t go there.

But Camille did—and she made it feel okay. She wasn’t heavy or intense about emotions. It never felt awkward with her. She had this way of opening space without demanding anything from you. I could say the darkest, weirdest thing, and she’d respond in a way that made me feel like I had just said the most relatable thing in the world. She’d offer the most fantastic perspective– make me feel seen, never judged. Then she’d say something hilarious and the stress would dissolve. She made honesty feel casual. Safe. She didn’t force honesty; she invited it.

I still have those walls up. It makes me good at hiding the pain of her absence. But every once and a while, the walls buckle– and I feel. Despair. Sorrow. Desperation. Hopelessness. Utter disbelief. 

That’s something she’s shown me in her next chapter– she’s shown me how human I am. She’s shown me the love and understanding I have for people. I’ve grieved for her, for her family, for her friends. For the world, even. Because if Camille had more time, she would’ve added so much.

She had plans. Dreams. And she chased them harder than anyone I’ve ever known. She was going to capture the stars, every last one. But her time was up. And instead of having that thirtieth birthday phone call we spent so much time anticipating, she died– still young. Still brave. Still wild and beautiful. Still free.

As devastating as it is, there’s something very Camille in that. 

A friend in New York once asked me, after I’d tried to describe Camille to her, “So why was she your best friend?” I knew that I hadn’t explained her right at all.

So, here’s why:

Because Camille was madly in love with her friends. Her love was unconditional and intense. She made time for the people she loved. She wasn’t a once-a-month-check-in, spread-thin, cast-a-wide-net kind of friend. She was a tell-me-everything, laugh-until-we-cry, make-every-moment-count kind of friend. And so am I. That kind of bestfriendship is rare—especially in adulthood, with all of its distractions and obligations. To have someone who is just as in love with your friendship as you are with theirs? I’ll never take that for granted.

Because as you grow up, you start becoming more like your parents. You parent your friends sometimes. You slip into advice mode. But Camille and I never did that to each other. We stayed girls in the world— just trying to figure it all out. Side by side. 

Because she was honest. She wouldn’t shout everything from the rooftops, but if you asked, she’d tell you anything. She was a mystery and an open book all at once. She had walls, sure—but if you were let in, you were all the way in. And I was one of the lucky ones.

Because she loved animals and nature and always had her finger on the pulse of what is right. 

Because damn, was she consistent. She’d send a text if it had been a while, call you just to hear your voice, leave a voicemail if you had been hard to reach lately. I still have the voicemails. They make me laugh. They make me cry.

She would always extend an olive branch after an argument. Never letting pride get in the way. Always willing to fight for the people she loved.

She didn’t do things for show. She didn’t hide. She did what was true to her. She didn’t weigh every choice against what others might think, the way so many of us do. Camille was sure. Maybe not sure of what life had in store, but sure of herself.

She was a romantic. A dreamer.

One of her best friend’s once said: “Camille is someone you meet for two minutes and remember for the rest of your life.” That’s exactly it. That’s the honest to God truth.

Camille was direct. Unapologetically herself. She didn’t sugarcoat things.

And she wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea.

But she was mine.

I’ve made peace with not making it to the hospital in time. Some of us needed to be there— to love her as she came face to face with what the rest of us haven’t had to yet. To hold her as she left. But that wasn’t meant for me.  It wasn’t in the cards (hers, mine, maybe ours) for me to watch her go. My purpose, I think, was to remember her how she was. She will always be lively, rambunctious Camille to me.

I learned not to wait, that’s for sure. Don’t wait to say I love you. Don’t wait to be totally honest. To speak your truth. Don’t wait to book the flight. 

I know that now.

Now that she’s gone, I wonder about all the little things I never bothered to ask.

Did she listen all the way through albums she loved? Or skip around?

What did she do on airplanes to pass the time? 

What was her favorite smell? 

Did I ever say something that hurt her feelings—something she never told me about? 

How the hell did she sit through getting a blackout leg tattoo when she was the most dramatic tattoo-getter I’ve ever met? 

I see photos and videos of her in places so far away and beautiful, and I wonder how she ended up there. When did she decide to go? Was it as magical as it looked?

Did she have any idea that she filled me with hope?

I see the sweet messages she sent to others and wonder how, with the waterfalls of love she poured onto me, she had any left to give. But she did. Somehow, she always did.

I’m still listening my way through her playlists. She made incredible ones. She never even mentioned them, but hundreds of people saved them. That was Camille—quietly brilliant. Humble. I hear songs I love that I’ve never heard before. And then I see the ones I shared with her. Like “Look at Miss Ohio” by Gillian Welch—the one I told her reminded me of her. I wonder if she ever listened to it while driving through the desert. If she did, did she think of me, too?

So, I’ll live with the mystery. Of who she was becoming. Of what was going to happen next.

And I get it now—how you’d give anything for one more day. It’s true. What I wouldn’t give to ride beside her again. In the daylight. To ask her all my questions. To see her smiling, from her passenger seat. 

But even in the not-knowing, some things are certain. 

I know that her playlists will always fill my home with music. 

Coffee will always fill her mug. I’ll think of her as I drink it.

I’ll spoil my cat, Winston. If he was ever so much as in the vicinity while we FaceTimed, she would immediately demand “Pet him!” She believed every animal should be spoiled rotten.

I’ll be gentle with myself. Patient. She would have wanted that.

I’ll remember to be kind to my mom. Her mom was her best friend, too. 

I’ll always seek happiness. Say yes more. She wished only the best for her friends. Whenever something amazing would happen to one of us, she was immediately delighted. It was never forced, no jealous pause before congratulations. She wanted nothing more than to see her friends happy, confident and having fun. Being recklessly themselves. That’s who she was, without waver. And she wanted it for all of us. 

And I know that we will all walk away in our cowboy boots, gifted to us by Camille. That we will carry her with us as we wear them. And we will remember to romanticize the small, insignificant things. Because Camille really lived that.

She's gone. 
And I miss her so much. 
But our friendship doesn’t only live in pictures and memories. 
It lives in my heart. In my soul. In who I am now. 
I still feel her.
The love didn’t die with her. It stayed.
And I will never stop being grateful that we chose each other. 
Because I am unfathomably better for it.

Peace, love, and growth to you all,
TeriAnne