Going on two months since you told me that.
Since you told me you hoped I would burn for what I did to you.
I suppose that means you're not my friend either. Maybe you never were, just like you told me I never was.
Since people don't generally keep photos of people who aren't their friends, I haven't really figured out what to do with the 2000+ photos and videos I have of you. The last seven years of my life, of which you have been an integral part, I've documented through photos. You're everywhere in them. You're excitedly showing me the special cabinets in your grandparents' house. You're flirting with the guy behind the counter in a coffee shop in St Louis. You're trying to find a home for a stray cat. You're getting one of your gorgeous tattoos that you're so proud of. You're singing, you're longboarding, you're making that amazing strawberry stuff you make. You're giggling with me in Waffle House, in Barnes and Noble, in your car, in our old apartment, about who knows what, about some silly inside joke, about something one of us said about a stranger, about a line from an anime, about some crazy idea you've had. Or you're doing absolutely nothing, just standing or sitting somewhere, looking at your phone, or out the window, or into space, or you're talking to someone, maybe me, maybe someone else, and those are the pictures I have the most of because I appreciated you so much in all those mundane moments where I'd look at you doing nothing at all, or doing something perfectly ordinary, but it wasn't ordinary at all, it was special because it was you, because it was my best friend in the world, because it was the amazing girl who'd been by my side for longer than anyone else in my whole life, the girl with whom I laughed and argued and cried and giggled and sang and talked and confided and trusted. The girl who drove me insane sometimes, but who I still loved. The girl who wrote me a fairy tale.
The girl who decided, seven years ago, that I looked lonely, and that she ought to do something about it.
And the girl who decided, seven years later, that I couldn't be forgiven.
The girl who isn't my friend.
You're not my friend.
But you were. Once upon a time.