By Winona Young, Features Editor I’m in my room in Vancouver, scrolling through my Instagram feed. In the pale blue glow of my phone screen, I see the new post that she’s uploaded from New Orleans: a picture of herself and some other girl. They’re in matching costumes and I scrunch my mouth. She never did anything like that with me, I think distantly. I double tap the screen on instinct. I continue scrolling, and try not to think too hard about how happy the person I once called someone my best friend looks with someone new. I’ve gone…
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