I’m sorry for not keeping in touch.
Human memory is a liminal space. I still remember the scent of spring air the night we sat on my picnic table and spoke about our families. You told us how you envied your parents’ relationship with your older sister, how heartbroken it made you feel. I think there is something to say about the unadulterated honestly we reserve for our best friends. I discovered yesterday that I’d forgotten the sound of your laugh.
I’m sorry for not keeping in touch.
The truth is, I didn’t know how. Our friendship arose from chance, we were part of the same cluster of children pretending to know who they were. On our way to the fall out boy concert – we went together because none of our other friends could make it- you made an offhand comment about how gender norms are such bullshit. I agreed, and we got onto the metro with your entire family. When I saw your announcement on instagram about getting top surgery, I wanted to tell you how I beamed while reading it, how happy I was that you were finally gonna be comfortable in your body. Then I realized that we’re not that close anymore. Perhaps we never were.
I’m sorry for not keeping in touch.
I think I always loved you a little more than you’d loved me, and that’s okay. I remember how my hands shook when I told you that I (maybe) also liked girls and how afraid I was of moving to another country. You reassured me by saying that we would constantly text and that you would always be there. What I didn’t account for was how much it would hurt when you would tell me about your first kiss, or homecoming, or how one of our other friends was being a bitch. This is the difference between first and third person. We’d once planned that after high school, the two of us would move to New York. I don’t know you like that anymore, but part of me still wants to.
I’m sorry for not keeping in touch.
I don’t think anyone’s had a good experience at an all-girl catholic high school. We found relief in our shared desire to escape, as if we were the only two prisoners left in the panopticon that is a small town. It’s not your fault that I was at my worst when I befriended you. In an effort to forget that time of my life altogether, I end up suppressing all my memories with you.