A haunting recording of John Mayer playing “Gravity” plays through my tinny speakers as I sit in front of this screen. I have a blurred photo of you on my desktop, stolen by our friend in the middle of a poker game. You look terribly pixelated, thanks to the dim lighting and the unsteady hand of someone trying to steal a shot of you, knowing how much you hate being photographed.

But it’s still you. Your likeness. For once, I feel like I can watch you, memorize your features. My screen is smudged in the lower right corner, where your photo is displayed. It’s almost embarrassing to admit, but yes, I sometimes half-consciously run my fingers over that precious square inch of smooth glass, as if to caress your face, your cheek, that soft part of your neck just above the collar. I know it’s lame, but what can I do? I miss being with you.