Natalie Armstrong
Thursday | July 16th, 2020.
I’ve known and have been good friends with Natalie for quite a while. I met her sophomore year when I founded Filmmaking Club. She was soft spoken, yet ever-observant. Somehow I knew that her mind worked differently than everyone else's.
I wouldn’t be surprised if she was classified as a genius, honestly.
I fixated on the barren Foster City roads outside her car window. I bantered a bit with- and silently judged- her new boyfriend, Bennie, before we kicked him out at his house.
“Finally, no more men.”
I sighed. She chuckled from the driver’s seat.
She knew I approved of him. He was a good guy, one of the few who actually made her feel safe and held her as an equal. I could tell she was happy.
We got to her house and made our way up to her room, a familiar sight to me. Her place was a designated hang out spot for our friend group. Endless hangers lined her bunk bed, Unif sweaters and concert merch galore. Natalie didn’t need a bunk bed, she was the only child; yet the display it fostered still worked wonders at engrossing my attention. I curiously inquired about her pile of stuffed animals resting on its built-in shelf.
She affectionately pulled out her favorite monkey, Ryry III, in response.
The game started. Conversation seemed effortless. We opened up about nearly the same things. We jokingly pined over the people who treated us the worst: she was used as a therapist by a boy she never met, I was ghosted around 5 times by 3 different girls.
We shared our annoyance with the all-consuming chaos of our past eating disorders. How it was a fight against our thoughts every day. Knowing my own struggles, I wanted to instill as much worth in her as possible—going on about her expansive capability for thought and her boundless, compassionate heart.
Natalie was one of the first people that made an effort to truly get to know me. I wanted to return the favor.
Before we parted, we gave each other nicknames (she was Pickle Girl, I was Monnie), and wrote each other a note.
She wrote that our love would span across all dimensions– that we were meant to meet.
I laughed as I read that on my way back, recalling our extensive conversation on parallel universes and lengthy philosophical meanderings.
She was right. It most certainly would.
Note: Like Gali, the entirety of Nat’s shoot (with the exception of the last photo) was done on film.