Dear Ex-Best Friend,
It's always been my thought that you never forget someone who was once your best friend. I'm now realizing that this idea was never a belief of yours. I, to you, was just a past-time, a filler chapter; you were my whole plot, and now I have to rewrite our story.
I remember when we met- early middle school, still new to everything around us, awkwardly moving through foreign halls and imagining what this chapter in our lives would reveal. You and I, we pased by each other, similar to how we do now. Strangers. I was the sarcastic know-it-all, the out of shape misfit; you were this bright star, a peppy ball of cheerfulness. We didn't mix- at least, not at first, no. We were partners, not in crime, but in the time we spent in this seemingly sublime world. You had your clique, I had my crew- yet neighter of us fully fit in. It was like someone snagged us out of a box of puzzle pieces and tried to replace two that they had lost. But you see, we weren't made to complete a picture; we were built to make our own. You and I, we were the only two pieces that had all of the weird curves, the sharp edges. You, this elongated masterpiece taken from a picture of the northern lights, and me, a compact piece stolen from a field of four leaf clovers. We didn't belong together, but oh, were we beautiful. Together, we crafted our own world.
You were so set on being isolated from the rest that we constructed our house on an island- little did I know that there weren't enough resources to support us forever. It's amazing, really, how you convinced me to live there, for you always knew I was afraid of drowning. But you reassured me that, so long as you were by my side, you'd sail us back to the mainland anytime... so where are you now?
I've spent days, weeks, months in this house, alone. The tide has been rising gradually; these wooden beams won't hold for long. Yet here I am, waiting for you to return. Once again, I am walking down foreign hallways, except this time, these walls that surround me are plastered with memories of us. Tilted frames line the stairways, faded pictures covered in dust. I take one in my hands; I try to be gentle, but I have been deprived of another human's touch for so long that I squeeze our memory too hard- the glass breaks. The picture tears. It does not break evenly. Tears run down to my fingertips, an attempt to wash away the pain. I am drowning, not in the ocean that has trapped me here, but in myself. In what once was. It's amazing, really, for you've always known I was afraid of drowning- never did I think I would be afraid of you.
This is not how our story was meant to end. There are balls of crumpled paper surrounding the trash can in my room, each a different attempt at the next chapter in my life. You used to admire how I had a way with words, but you've left me speechless since the day you walked out. I've come to accept that our friendship is not a boomerang; it is not coming back. I've spent far too many hours staring out at the vast landscape in hopes of seeing you return- it's about time I learn to shut the window. Yesterday, I changed the locks of our- my house. But don't worry; your keys may not fit my front door anymore, but the back room is always yours.
A Forgotten Stranger