I remember the first time I met you, formally in an online conversation. My friend’s font color changed to a midnight blue, and the tone shifted to stubborn rebellion. I was confused, I didn’t know who you were. You spoke a different language – an extraterrestrial dialect, and you replaced my friend’s jokes with bizarre political doctrines. How you were going to take over the world. How you were really a robot, dressed in armor with blue crystals. You were invisible, mostly. A presence. With large, looming eyes that noticed everything. How her parents were secretly hiding cameras in her room. Under her bed and in the breaks of plastered walls. They beeped at you. Then I saw you in person unexpectedly. We were slouching in our front bus seat, sulking as high school freshmen do. Something in her eyes changed. They turned knowing, accusatory. She smirked and I moved back. You spoke intelligently, with carefully crafted sentences. But also with fear. It formed a lump in my throat, gradually like a rolled-up snowball. I opened my mouth and reached for the snowball, nearly choking. You pulled me back. If I wasn’t with you, I was against you. The revolution has sparked. The fight has begun. The last I remember of you was at the bus stop, tightly wrapped in her jacket and scarf. Her mother drove by, on her way to work. A tired smile and a wave. Somehow you broke out of her body. A fast switch, I felt like I was dreaming. Your spirit released itself with a stoic expression, and faded quickly like the clouded air from our breath. My friend blinked in confusion as the snow melted. I hope you are healed.