I tried calling you today, and see what’s up. Not that like, it being “Aids day” that I have to call you… It’s not like its your birthday. But I think about you. Every day. I remember when you first told me you had HIV, I cried. And you hid away from me like I was going to find you disgusting. I didn’t. I loved you all still the same and you still were my best friend. I remember getting off the phone with you and I spent the whole late night reading everything I could about HIV and AIDS. So I could understand. and be there for you whenever. You would call me, and cry to me. Scared of the future, ashamed of “who you are”, rejected by the ignorant, hurt by the people who refused your story for they thought you made it “so you wont sound like a whore.” And I wish I was there to make you feel better. These days, a while goes by before we talk. We drifted apart, you’re making something of yourself and I’m still me, here. I miss you, ynow. I think about you every day. I hope you’re doing alright. I hope that bastard dies in prison, but further more, I hope you forgave yourself. You’re one of the most beautiful people I know and no illness or disorder should convince you otherwise.