Pages From My Heart

to a then dear, now distant, friend

Dearest then, nearly missed now,

I hope you're alright. I wish you well, though I'm not sure how much that matters anymore. When we parted, feelings were hard and so many things were unresolved. Unspoken.

We had been friends since we learned the basics of multiplication, and we parted when we learned of the pandemic's beginning. Funny how it was paralleled, isn't it? Started with a beginning and ended with one too. But never mind that. I want to tell you that I don't hate you. I don't like you, but I don't hate you. We were not good for each other. But that doesn't mean I don't wish you well.

I didn't like you when we first met. Maybe I was right not to like you. You wouldn't let me go until I became your friend. Maybe you were wrong to befriend me. I spent nights at your house, where we stayed up talking about your new school. And that night you spent at my house, we talked about our favorite characters and stories. I stayed up late talking you out of suicide. You tried to find me a friend. Your efforts were futile but I hope mine weren't. All of this makes it sound like we were good for each other. We were not. You hurt me and I'm sure I hurt you.

It started when you first showed my the scars on your wrist. I fret over you and tried to help you. I was a kid. You were a kid. I would sacrifice my rest, my wellbeing for you. You ignored me when I tried to talk to you. You didn't listen to me. You weren't good for me. That isn't to say that I was good for you, but I don't know how I wronged you.

I offered you direction, answers, and advice. In exchange, you kept me company. I'm not sure that was good for us. It came to a climax when the pandemic started. Your parents found the secrets you whispered to me over text and we fell out. Almost. We disobeyed our parents and held up our silent rebellion. It was a dirty piece of work, that revolution. Talking about dark secrets and fantasies on accounts never meant to be in contact. We tainted our talks, but relished in them nonetheless.

Then one night, it got too much for me. I backed out, afraid of the consequences, of the disappointment. I let the rebellion fall (but I kept our secrets). Call me a coward, it may be true, but by then? I was damn near sick of you. I wished you well and bade you goodbye, saying that the water was too deep and I didn't like it thigh high. I felt guilty not for not missing you and not for abandoning our rebellion, but for lying. To you, to my parents, to everyone involved.

You're gone now, whisked away for whatever reason. I don't know how you are. I want to know if you're well. I never want to talk to you again. You'll never see this letter and that's for the better. We weren't good for each other, but I wish it didn't have such a bitter end. Though if it didn't, then maybe we'd still be together, cyanide in our hearts but caring words said regardless of how far apart we might be.

I wish you well and I hope you know that I don't hate you. I'm sorry that it ended the way it did.

Sincerely,

Yours then.