Valorie was my first girl friend. My first partner in crime. The first girl who knew me before I knew myself. Five years never felt like five years. It felt like we were growing up side by side.

I can still see that trundle bed. The late-night whispers. The laughter we tried to muffle. The dumb decisions we thought were monumental. Those memories aren’t just stories, they’re pieces of my childhood stitched together with her voice in the background.

We didn’t always get it right. We argued. We drifted. We found our way back. That was us. The connection never really broke. Even when we were fighting like hell, there was still love underneath it. There was always love.

I miss her in ways I don’t always say out loud. I miss knowing she existed in the world at the same time as me. I miss the comfort of “she’s there.” Thirty-six years feels unfair. It feels unfinished.

She was loud, bold, stubborn, funny, protective — and she loved deeply. And I was lucky enough to grow up with that love wrapped around me.

She will always be my first girl cousin. My history. My shared beginning. And there will always be a part of me that still expects to hear her laugh in the next room.

I miss her more than words can hold.