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When I was twenty-six I found out the guy who sat behind me in senior year of high school died. I had known him for almost nine years when I heard the news, and I could not believe it no matter how many times our friends posted about it.

We met on that first day, and I did not think much of him—he seemed proud and strong and willing to take someone in a fight. He was not the kind of person I thought to go out of my way for, not someone I would actively associate with. But in the humdrum of senior year, through the math classes and the tedium, I found in him a friend.

There were four of us sitting in the front corner by the door of the classroom—we eventually got to calling each other brother. That kind of acknowledgement was a big deal for someone like me, a queer kid struggling with labeling things. I liked being called brother, and I found comfort in calling them brothers.

It felt to me like we were practically invincible in that corner of the classroom. We could banter audibly in the middle of a lesson, and our teachers would leave us alone because the four of us could keep up with the class activities anyway. When our homeroom adviser tried to change the seating arrangement and break us up, bad things would happen until we were restored to our little corner.

The four of us did not actually have much in common with each other, and outside of the classroom we only sometimes hung out. It seems strange to me now that our relationships with each other relied a lot on mutual antagonism—the sort full of sarcasm and faux disdain for the very things that mattered to us. That was our normal. Brothers would mess with each other, fully aware of the sort of love and affection that goes into bickering.

At some point by the middle of the school year the four of us found out that we had common interest in a series called Community—a situational comedy show about a bunch of misfit community college students learning anything but Spanish in their study group. It turns out we could relate to the characters—the absurd situations they find themselves in, the constant bantering, even some personality traits.

We would tease each other about how similar we were to some characters; part of our banter would be calling each other the names of the characters we were supposedly mimicking in those situations. By the time we actually got into college, though, I stopped keeping up with the show; I no longer had free time. We went to the same university, but we never had courses in common, and we ran in different circles, similar to how things were in high school. Whenever we would cross paths, though, we would chat a little, and he would still call me brother. He would say, I miss you, we should hang out sometime.

The last memory I have of us from senior year was at his house; he invited people over to celebrate his birthday. I remember feeling out of place because most of his friends were from popular groups; I might have been the only out queer kid there. I floated around his house, trying to small-talk my way through the night, when something I said seemed to disturb one of the basketball players nearby who started to interrogate me about me being queer.

It felt like I was being cornered, and I was feeling uncomfortable, and he must have been nearby because I remember him coming in close and telling the basketball player to go away. As soon as the basketball player was out of earshot he turned to me and asked if I was okay—and I was in the moment that he asked. He told me to enjoy myself and to talk to him if ever I needed anything that night. I still remember the expression of his face when he walked away from me after that—like a frown that transitioned into a smile with a wink.

That was the safest I ever felt at a party full of straight people. It felt like my friend was willing to fight for me, even defend my honor against the judgment of his other friends. He was a good guy—an ally—who liked me for me and genuinely wanted me there as a friend to celebrate his birthday among his other friends. I was never able to tell him how much that moment meant to me—but I think he knew. Whenever we would chat, we would pick up where we left off—as if nothing between us had changed even though our situations had.

I also remember the moment when my classmate in a certification course mentioned his death; it felt like the room had darkened. I had a sinking feeling in my gut, and I tricked myself into not thinking about it until his best friend announced his death in one of her posts. I lost that month to repression until I saw an online feature on Community, and so I started streaming it, from the top.

I really hoped the show would last six seasons and a movie so that I could pretend my friend was still alive for as long as I was watching. Grief was still new to me, and when my grandfather died the summer before senior year of high school, I was indoctrinated into celebrating life instead of mourning death—so it was with Community; I would feel bad about the sad moments but look forward to the happy ones. It was a comedy—celebration was inevitable. I did not anticipate that the finale would affect me so much—I was on the verge of tears for what felt like a week. Every little success, every stumbling block felt like it would push me over the edge. Pain, sorrow, joy—they all felt the same somehow.

I think I was trying to celebrate his life by reminding myself of him and the happiness of our friendship—by watching Community. What I did not anticipate was the feeling of emptiness, of loss, when I reached the finale. I wanted to be selfish—I still want to be selfish because his death is still affecting me. It feels selfish to think of his death—or his life—in relation to me, to think that his death is my loss. It feels unfair to him—to his memory. Selfish and unfair—yet I make his death about me, and he can no longer say anything to me.

His death is not about me—I have to be fair—but his death is still affecting me. I can be selfish about what I remember. I can be selfish about how I feel. His death is not about me, but the effect of his life on mine is. I can dwell on that.