I want to pay homage to a friendship that I deeply miss. I know that what has been cannot possibly ever be rekindled, and this, I believe, is why I prevent myself from forgetting it.

It was all my fault, really. I take full responsibility for allowing our friendship to suddenly crumble like the Roman empire. One day we were inseparable, the best of friends, and the next?

I distinctly remember questioning whether we would be friends until the ends of our lives. College is, in fact, where many of those friendships are made. We were lying together on the lawn outside the library one mild autumn day and I asked her "Do you ever wonder if we'll be best friends until senior year?" I can't recall her answer for the life of me, but just the fact that I even asked is a vivid red question mark in my memory of her. But the fact that I could ask her stands out even more. I trusted her, I was comfortable with her, I spent all my free time with her and longed for a bout of laughter when we weren't together. It was as if I had known her for years despite it only being weeks.

I remember the shoes that she wore. They were her staple article of choice, happily matched with a pair of stand-out socks woven with soft cotton in bold colors. She wore them almost every day, the taupe suede beautifully worn in with care. They were her trademark, something that I can never picture her without. The idea of her wearing a different pair of shoes is a travesty.

I remember her slight frame. Always hidden by slightly oversized jackets and slightly loose jeans. Her very straight legs ended at her very fragile ankles which, I believe, made her shoes look even better. We stood at the same height and I was always slightly envious of her slight frame in comparison to mine.

We had so many things in common. Yet these similarities were minuscule and easily overlooked over our differences. We used the same shampoo, ate the same things, both had acne-prone skin, used the same notebooks, shared the same French professor, and had the same American Eagle pants size. It was like looking into a mirror and meeting your clone for the first time, amazed at all the things you shared.

But there were differences. She was a musician. She could play the guitar, piano, ukelele, harmonica, as well as other instruments, I'm sure. I took piano lessons in second grade before throwing a tantrum during a lesson. I learned how to play the recorder in fourth grade but during recitals I just copied everyone else's finger movements.

One afternoon, we were walking through the basement of the music building where she spent many hours practicing for her private lessons. She invited me into one of the practice rooms where a Steinway & Sons baby grand stood in the middle of an otherwise stark room with two floor-length mirrors on opposite sides. She sat down at the bench and her fingers began tickling the ivory keys, producing melodies from pop music. I was sitting to her left side and I can't explain why, but I felt slightly uncomfortable. Its was as if I was invading her space and I wasn't meant to be there. I felt as if I was being wrongly serenaded even though I know that this was her most comfortable element.

Despite our differences, we spent many hours together as friends. She was my first friend in college and definitely my most memorable one. Together, we joked and laughed, quietly understanding each other while sharing favorite books. I don't think I could ever forget this girl. She was the first person to really accept me during the beginning of this new part of my life.

I think our relationship began to fall apart when she began running in preparation for her 5k run. I was not only uninterested in running, but she cherished the time she had to herself. She also began visiting the gourmet coffee place across the street with greater frequency. I didn't like spending so much money on a hot beverage, so I didn't join her when she was there. Then one day she introduced me to a girl in her French class over dinner. I remember being very annoyed at her presence because they spoke about things I couldn't relate to, plus she had an incessant high-pitched voice.

After that dinner, I turned to my friend and said "Wow, that girl's really annoying." My attempt to start conversation about how much we mutually had a distaste for her backfired. She replied "Well I like her and she's my friend. I don't know why you can't support my friendships with other people when I always support yours." The friendships to which she referred were with my teammates, people I couldn't help but spend countless hours with every day.

I now understand her frustration and can't help but remember all the times I put her up to having dinner with my fellow teammates. But I think it was a simple misunderstanding: I wasn't fully aware that she held her friend in such high regard until she made that remark. From there, it seemed as if we were splitting ways.

Then there was the four-day blow. Thursday was my birthday and that year I was simply uninterested in celebrating and instead spent the day in bed. She asked me if I wanted to have lunch together, but I was feeling low-spirited and declined. Later that day, she visited me to present me with a birthday present. It was a box of Corn Pops, our favorite cereal, recently purchased on her last trip to the store. She was the only person to give me a gift. After thanking her, I sent her on her way and went back to bed.

On Friday, my friend from New York came to visit. She was going to begin attending our school in the spring and wanted to get a feel for the campus before landing here in January. I picked her up after class and spent the day with her while my friend spent her day with her parents who were visiting for Friends & Family Weekend.

I devoted Saturday and Sunday to spending time with my guest while my friend spent her weekend with her family. I later recalled that she had asked me to spend a meal with her that weekend because her parents wanted to meet her college friends. Upon first hearing that, I was touched to think that I was someone's close friend that garnered meeting the parents. But alas, it slipped my mind while I was entertaining my guest.

The next Monday, it had been three days since we last spoke. I expected her to send me a text to confirm our lunch plans as we usually did on Mondays. Lunch came and went, no text. That was my first mistake.

Then I was afraid to take the initiative and text her first. I was confused about the standing of our relationship and didn't know what to do. That was my second mistake.

One evening while walking toward the back of the dining hall to deposit my dishes, I pretended not to see her sitting on her own as I walked by. That was my third and most fatal mistake.

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So to pay homage to this single person, I am going to get a pair of Clark's Desert Boots in Taupe Suede. I will wear them and care for them until they fall apart, worn in with love. Then I will rekindle my love for those shoes by getting another pair.

I loved us, and I only wish I could do more. But for everything that we shared, thank you Becca. I only wish I could do more.