Letters From Leila

Prologue

  November 19th, 2023

  "Leila, can we talk?"

The words stuck out on my screen like a red poppy in a field of white daisies. The notification was from Reece, my best friend of seven years. We had known each other since sixth grade. He never texted like that. His texts usually came in bursts of threes with spelling and grammar errors among the abbreviations he used. He was never serious when we talked, so his swift change in tone shocked me. Something must have been very wrong.

"What's up? Are you okay?" I sent back, watching the three dots appear immediately after I responded.

I stared at those three dots for what felt like years, but in reality was only around five minutes. After a while, the response I was not anticipating popped up: A two paragraph text containing accusations of me being a horrible person with nothing but problems, anger issues, and no restriction on what I say. Reece, a usually understanding, kind-hearted, and overall seemingly amazing person had just written me a confrontational message telling me that he had heard from people that I was racist and fatphobic towards our own friends. He went into detail, explaining the things I had 'said' and telling me how upset he was by it. He called me mentally damaging, saying that every time I talked about how I was feeling, sad, angry, or otherwise upset, everyone around me felt like I was draining their own mental health. I was utterly confused by it all. I could understand to a certain level how hearing someone complain and talk about their problems could drain someone, but not once had I ever said anything remotely racist, or fatphobic, to anyone. I told him that. I explained in my own paragraph that I had never said anything that I was accused of. I went as far as to apologize for being mentally damaging and for any instance in which I had forgotten something I had said. I just wanted to save my friendship. I didn't realize that replying to that message would only make things worse. I didn't know that I could possibly make things worse than they were at that moment, but somehow I did.

The last message I ever received from Reece was a rude goodbye, a message saying, "At least now I'm free from this toxic friendship. Bye."

Now, seven months later, I've resorted to writing letters that I tuck away in a box, saying everything I've wanted to tell him since minutes after our last conversation. I've written around 20 by now, but I've scrapped half of those. I often think back to that last message from him. While everything he had said was so unlike him, that last message was the one that felt the most foreign. It was as if someone else had typed that for him, twisting the words and turning them sour. That last message is the one that stung the most. Every last word from him hurt, but that last message felt like a knife stabbing into my heart and twisting further and deeper than anything anyone has ever said, reaching corners that even I didn't know words could reach. It left me wondering, was I really so horrible? Was all of this really my fault? Was there something deeper behind all of this? But now, I realize that the only answers I will ever receive are the ones I make for myself, and those will never be close to the truth, will they?