I was scrolling through psychotherapy memes on Instagram a few years ago when Hannah popped up in my friend requests. We each had new last names and new looks.

I had decided that since I had to wear wigs anyway (as an ultra-Orthodox Jew), they may as well be blonde instead of my natural dull brown.

She wore a mixture of wigs and other creative head coverings. We “hearted” each other’s posts, not daring to break our silence with actual words. “She seems happy,” I told myself, my fingers hovering over her photos. “Don’t start anything.” Still, I found myself imagining her as the girl I once knew in braces and a messy bun, without makeup or laugh lines, who slung her backpack down near me on the first day of tenth grade in Borough Park, Brooklyn.