I remember sitting at my computer when I learned about his death on Twitter. Feeling that deep, guttural pang that comes with painful news, I reached for my silk McQueen scarf, which was black and printed with white skulls. It was a birthday gift from my parents; I treasured it, because I felt like McQueen was the only fashion designer who understood how pain and beauty can sometimes be the same thing. That the darker parts of life were just as invigorating as the brightness, and that romance is based in yearning as much as love. That spoke to me, and since his death, nothing else in fashion has ignited that passion the same way.