Gone

Your picture stares back at me from where I stuck it years ago. Rows of photo booth snapshots of us mock me from their place in the side of my mirror. If I focus hard enough on your face, it’s almost like you’re here with me. A halo of blonde curls frames your angular face and your wide blue eyes are alight. I can almost hear your contagious laughter seeping from the photo. I haven’t seen that wide smile in years, and now I never will again. This is how I want to remember you, happy, in the moments when you stopped caring what the world thought of you and let go.

I gently take down the picture and look at your writing scrawled across the back in big, bold letters, just like you. “Best friends for life and eternity” it reads. I smile to myself at the certainty you once had about the future. You used to not care what anyone thought. I used to admire how bold and brave you were. But you never thought you were good enough. You cut your beautiful curls, you dyed them brown and flattened them out. You wore more makeup and different clothes, but still you couldn’t be happy with yourself. You became friends with those you used to hate and dated boys who would only use you. You never thought you were good enough. You wore even more makeup, even though you were already beautiful. You didn’t eat, even though you were already thin. You slit your wrists and said you were unloved, even though that was far from the truth.

You changed, while I stayed the same. I fought hard to hold on to what we had once had, but we drifted apart. And then you were gone in the blink of an eye. I can’t bear the thought of going back to school, of seeing whatever memorial they’ve made for you. I can’t stand everyone who ever saw you in the hallway grieving as though they knew you, when I don’t think even I truly knew you. Now I’m the girl whose  best friend died and I don’t think I will ever escape the pitying looks and those afraid to talk to me. They’ll look at me like I’m fragile, like I might break into a million pieces at any moment and sometimes I feel like I might. But I don’t blame you, though in the end it was your choice, I blame those who gave up on you and used you. I blame myself.

I think of the picture of you they showed on the local news when they announced your death, it wasn’t you. This worn picture taken in a mall photo booth is who you really are and always will be to me.