the day after tomorrow

Or will you fall?

Dear Wendy,

I figured it was about time I wrote you a letter instead. We'll see if I actually send it though. I'm not sure I want to keep seeing you. Having you out of my life was refreshing in a way. I liked having the independence to do my own stuff. Being with you, near you, isn't good for me. I've relapsed so many times now I don't think it counts as relapsing anymore.

I miss you. More than I'd like to admit. I know we just saw each other, and I know it was very, very awkward, but still. I regret not being there for you. I don't think that's good for me. If I keep this up I might kill myself. Too soon? Sorry. Having you as my friend has been wonderful, but I don't think I can do it anymore. But I know you'll make me change my mind. You always do. It scares me how good you are at that. You always seem to pop in at just the right moment. You leave at the wrong one though.

You were the first person to really see me. We were girls together. I don't want to lose that. I don't want to lose you. It's hard being anywhere without you. I think I hid behind you for a long time. Ever since you 'left', I didn't get to hide anymore. Now that your back, I don't want to go back to the way things were. I don't think I can love you anymore. In both ways, I suppose. You've become the person I love most, but the person I shouldn't like at all. And I mean truly, at all. Breaking down everyday, sobbing into my shirtsleeves, my pillowcase never being quite dry. It's not good for me. You're not good for me.

-Bebe.

I look down at the page. Wet splotches cover my pen marks, making little blurbs of in on the letter. With trembling hands, I sign the envelope, my eyes filling with tears I keep having to wipe away. I'm truly sorry. I didn't mean for it to go this way. Maybe she'll love me eventually, but I can't keep waiting for someone that I know wouldn't wait for me. She never has. That's not the type of person she is. As much as I hate myself for doing this, I can't live with her anymore. Rolling the pen she gave me between my fingers, I remember back when we were kids. I suppose we still are. I wish we didn't have to grow up. Childhood is something my brain couldn't process, so now I have to scramble to keep my "childhood wonder". Round and round I go. As I grow up, I long for my pigtails and bows. I used to hope for crop tops and freedom. I'm sure I'll look back and see I've wasted my life detached from reality, but for now it's bliss. That's what I'm telling myself. Losing focus is great, forgetfulness is a gift of youth. I try and try to believe that what Wendy did isn't affecting me, but I know it is. I didn't used to long for less scars, or closer friends. I thought that's what I had. Now I know better.

Wendy. She's all I think about. She has me wrapped around her finger and she doesn't even realize it. I've started writing again. She hurt me into writing again. Fuck. I missed it. I miss her. I grab for my phone, begging Wendy to have messaged me. I hope our twin telepathy works out. Maybe we can send coded messages. I think she wants to text me. She's saying I love you in my head. Probably not. I don't think she killed herself, or at least tried to, because of how much she loves me. She knows i know, there's that. I would kill myself too, I think. It's really embarrassing. We would laugh about that, if we were friends. Fuck. I'm calling her.

Radiohead is slowly drifting through my room. I decided it was either that or SOAD, and I'm pretty sad right now, so I figured Thom York would know something about that. The screen on my phone lights up, displaying the cute little photo me and Bebe took a few years ago. Why is she calling me? I feel my jaw drop. I don't want to answer, but I can't leave her ringing. Not like this. Sorry Bebe. I click the green button in the corner, and Bebes voice starts talking into my ear. I missed this.

Her: Hey Wendy, I just wanted to call to see how your doing, with the recovery and all
Me: Oh yeah, I'm doing great. I would thumbs up, but this isn't video chat, and I look awful right now.
Her: I was wondering, would you want to hang out again soon? I need to get a few things off my chest.
Me: Yeah, sounds great. I'm free Thursday, if that's what your wondering.
Her: Works for me! See you soon Wen.
Me: ...bye?

Why'd she agree. I was so sure I wouldn't have to deal with her right now, but of course, she was never keen on picking up sarcasm. Jesus Bebe, why did you get yourself into this situation? Wendy wouldn't do this to you. Fuck. I need a drink. Being sober is for losers anyway. You're too cool to be a decent person anyway. The bitter liquid slides down my throat with a burning thrill. I missed this. I missed my worst times. They were fun. It's ok I don't remember the specifics. Can't be that bad right? You're vaguely aware of reality at least 12% of the time. That's fine. This is normal. I'm normal. You're normal? I'm not sure. My inner thoughts are weird. Why am I only kind of real? Am I? Is that enough? IS it normal to feel this way? I don't want to. This is my pit. My boulder, my mountain. I'm endlessly pushing and pushing to get back to reality, but it slips out of reach. I hate myself for doing this. Just self harm or addiction for me please. All of them is a bit too much. It's either reality or a roof, and I'm not sure I have a preference anymore. Maybe Wendy can help. She killed herself before. I can just do the opposite of what she did and I'll be fine. Technically I'd be dead, but that's better than the hell I currently reside in. Either I die, or I am unable to live. What's the difference anymore?