I hate to admit it, even to myself, but I miss having you around.
Or, at least, I miss the idea of you. The idea of having someone platonically by my side, someone who doesn’t expect anything physical from me but who sticks around regardless, out of the sheer purity of friendship.
Since we’ve disconnected from each other, I’ve made other friends. People I can run to when times get rough. People to go to when I want to have a laugh, when I want to see a movie or go on aimless drives around town in the middle of the night.
But I sometimes feel there’s something off, some lack of electricity within the wavelength between them and me, a lack of interdependence between us.
A part of me feels that I cannot be totally honest and open with them, not in the way that I had once been with you. I’ve realized that I could go my own way and probably only feel the need to check up on them every once in a while, at most.
I wonder what this says about me.
Were all of the things you called me in that final correspondence true? Do I not care about others enough? Am I abnormal in some way?
No, I don’t think so.
What I am is hurt. And even though the pain still lingers, maybe for both of us, whatever relationship we had once possessed is over and done with. We can’t go back and change our actions, can’t take back the words that we whispered from between pursed lips, the ones that we came to regret later on.
The exact details of what happened are irrelevant. We aren’t in each other’s lives anymore and won’t be ever again. I’m finally starting to let go of what happened, starting to accept the universal truth that no one is perfect. No one is blameless in the breakdown of our friendship; we were both equally at fault. Neither one of us is innocent.
And even though you’ve hurt me, even though you’ve made me question my own goodness as a person, I want you to know that I’m sorry for the part that I played. I want you to know, that despite everything, I wish that things could have been different.
In the end we outgrew each other. We had petty, meaningless arguments. We scathed each other with stabbing words, our intention to draw blood. We weren’t good for each other anymore, were both a counterpart in a friendship that had gone toxic, flung out into some irretrievable place that neither of us would have been able to reach, no matter how much searching for it we did.
So even though I miss you sometimes, I’m glad we’re not friends anymore.
Because friendship is not about who is right in a disagreement. It’s not about tearing each other down or pointing fingers. I’m far enough removed from the situation now to realize that our friendship was built upon a faulty foundation.
Sometimes things just aren’t meant to be.
I doubt we’ll ever speak again. But I hope you know that if I could go back to that moment when we first met as our twelve year old selves, I wouldn’t change a thing. I wouldn’t force myself to turn away from you that day. I wouldn’t want my experiences with you to disappear. I would still go over to you, in the hallway outside of Mrs. Wilkes classroom on the first day of seventh grade, and say hello.
You taught me what it was to have a best friend. Through both of our mistakes, I’ve learned about all sorts of faults, the mistakes that people can make. I know that I won’t make them again.
One day I’ll have another best friend, and when that person walks into my life, I’ll know what to do. Thanks to you.