Memory Lane

Part 9: Mistake

You didn't ask me to be your girlfriend and to be fair, I didn't ask you either. But you had your own way of begging for my permission to be more than my best friend.

I wasn't sure about your feelings for me. After our almost-kiss, I knew there was something there.

It was just a matter of what you felt for me. I wasn't foolish enough to think that it was love, but I assumed that it was curiosity. You wanted to know what a girl felt like and I happened to be within reach.

Not that I minded. One kiss that didn't reach my lips couldn't ruin years of intimacy. We were just that close.

Still, it confused me. Were friends supposed to kiss? You were dating Harry at the time so you technically had a boyfriend. Wasn't it cheating if we held hands or did things that friends didn't normally do?

I wasn't sure where the line was between you and me. I didn't think there ever was one. You were a part of my soul, connected to me in ways I couldn't begin to describe. And I felt this, especially on nights when you slept in my bed.

It was happening more often so I got into the habit of leaving my window unlocked. Like clockwork, you climbed up the side of my house around 11:00 p.m., easily grappling onto the brick and ivy before expertly pushing yourself through the glass. I joked that you would make an excellent bank robber the first time you came in, but you didn't laugh.

You were never in a good mood when you snuck in during those late hours. I didn't ask, but judging by the screams I heard across the street, I assumed this was because things weren't peaceful at home.

I didn't pry. It wasn't my place to. There were always certain things that you couldn't tell me, terrible things that pushed you beneath my sheets. Looking back, I wish I had asked when you cried into my pillows. Maybe somewhere among those awful secrets, I would find the answer to your disappearance.

I lost track of the number of nights I held you, hours spent comforting you until the tears stopped and I heard your steady breathing. I could never rest properly seeing you so distressed, closing my eyes only when I was absolutely certain that you were asleep.

Somehow, your sorrow brought us closer together. In a twisted way, I was relieved. You were drifting away after that date, turning into someone unrecognizable during the week you didn't speak to me. I chalked it up to growing pains.

Despite your naivete, you were always more mature than me in the obvious ways. Specifically in the physical way.

You were between a C and D-cup, your chest uncertain which size it should settle on. You had the dual misfortune of breasts that were not only uneven but also large, telling me on more than one occasion about how lopsided you felt.

The discomfort quickly passed when you realized that your curves could be used to your advantage. You did away with your dresses, abandoning them for trendy crop tops, short skater skirts, and ripped jeans. My eyes became intimately acquainted with your belly button, which sported a piercing.

As your clothes got skimpier, you grew more distant and abandoned me for dates with Michael. I didn't understand why you had to leave me behind. Being my friend and being his girlfriend weren't mutually exclusive.

Maybe I didn't get it because the whole world still saw me as a kid. My body was stuck in middle school, flat all over with no sign of growing. And no matter how hard I tried, I still couldn't like boys.

I would have gone back to being friends with Tiffany again, but she was also busy with her boyfriend. For that depressing week alone, Evan was my only willing companion.

My life was a cosmic joke. I wished that I was the one laughing at it instead of being forced to live through it.

To his credit, he wasn't the worst to be around. The Evan who liked me was a slight improvement over the boy who spent the better part of my formative years bullying me. At least this version of him attempted to make my life easier.