An assignment for Honors World Literature; in which I tell the story of me making a decision that has changed my life. Please let me know what you think!

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Nine months post: Some days, I miss having a best friend who did nothing but listen. I miss his nerdy jokes and his rare smiles and the way his whole face lit up whenever he found something interesting or intriguing. I miss the Skype calls in which he showed me his Pokemon and his obsession with Lord of the Rings and I put my pile of new books on display for him. I lament the loss of texts with a friend who promised nothing but gave what he could.

Other days, I remember that he gave very little. I gave that friend all I could, all my love and kindness and attention and help, and received a small fraction of such in return. I remember the moments I wanted to scream because even when he knew that I had no one - when I was breaking down - he tuned me out until there was no more need for help like before.

But by now, I've learned that two faces are one too many.

Six months prior: Writingwritingwriting. I've been spending so many hours this weekend poring over the marks of red ink on the many pages of college-ruled paper, wondering what words I should use to tell him how much he's meant to me.

I give it to him on the penultimate day of school. As we're released from chorus and band, respectively, I hand him the eighteen pages of carefully written script so all of it is legible. Eighteen pages of bright ink that could be seen from a mile away.

"Just a goodbye letter."

"Dang... this is a lot."

"Yeah."

Another friend butts in, exclaiming, "Did you write eighteen pages for me?"

We all laugh, but each of us has a different sort of it. One carries like that of a pigeon still laden with the remnants of affection, another tries to hide disappointment, and yet another makes a stomach turn over with anxiety.

Four months post: You know what? Screw him. I'm sick of wishing him to come back, to apologize for being so cruel. I'm sick of wondering what I could have done to make things better and sick of regretting texting him when I was so low in the pit called Anxiety in the realm of Depression on the planet of Loneliness.

Goodbye, Matt. I refuse to let the memory of you lurk in the dim hallways of my mind.

Five months prior: Within two weeks of the end of middle school, all but five people seem to have forgotten that I exist. I moved an hour away; I didn't disappear from the face of the planet, though they probably think so. I'm happy that there are a few people who care enough to text me, let alone a lone friend who'll call me via Skype every week or so.

Three months post: My almost-friend-but-not-quite-but-also-ex-boyfriend(ish) says I've been acting weird since November, since that conversation with Matt.

"You need to talk to him at some point. Leaving everything so open ended has made you irrational and annoying."

My head spins as I type out a text to him. I turn fifteen as I type it.

Arrogance shines in his response. As I watch the blue and gray bubbles of text come into existence on my screen, I see more of what 99% of people who know him have always seen. This is the inability to hear reason.

Three months prior: Less talk between us, but more wishes to talk to him: a summation of school starting.

One month post: Unhealthy wishes turn into Christmas bravery. A text to say "hi." An awkward conversation. The feeling of a rift. The feeling of something broken. The feeling that there is nothing to fix.

Two weeks post: IwanttotalktohimsobadbuthesaidtoBEGONEsowhatdoIdonowthereisnooneelseIneedhelp.

The day of: An angry text accusing him of not caring at all goes two days without consequences. I've stuck this nail in the glass, threatened the balance. On this Monday before Thanksgiving, my phone vibrates against the arm of a chair.

For every word that I read, the little breaks from the nail I've driven into the porcelain vase begin to spiderweb, spreading all out over and threatening to break everything. My blood runs cold; hands start trembling; head begins to throb with a severe pain akin to being punted fifty yards down the football field.

I throw my hood over my head before ducking into the bathroom at my step-grandmother's house. Upstairs. Alone.

The mirror shows a red-faced girl, her eyes bright with tears and her lip trembling from what she believes she has done. The vase collapses on itself, the noise leaving me in shock.

The reflection weeps with me. Her sobs become strangled in her throat, create a grotesque frown that can be seen only when a true mess has taken place.

No apologies make my phone buzz. Why would he apologize for my asinine mistake?

Nine months post: It wasn't/isn't my fault. The toxic ones reveal themselves eventually.

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Word count: 834

Written and published on August 4th, 2017