It must have hurt like hell, but I can’t remember.
My best friend of my teen years. We were inseparable. A set. Always the two of us. Our names running together as if we were one whenever anyone talked about us, invited us anywhere, was looking for us.
“Are MariaEnSharyn coming?”
She was the funny one: social and likeable. I was the smart one: confident and caustic.
I loved her with an obsessive love that only teenage girls can really understand. Where all day every day still wasn’t enough to share all the things that we wanted to share.
When I think back on it, it seems like it was no big deal to let her go. That can’t be true of course, but the pain of it is nowhere in my memory.
She had a boyfriend in our senior year, a tight-fisted jerk who I hated, and who she invited along every time I wanted to spend time with her. I was exploring my sexuality with my first girlfriend, it made her uncomfortable. The cracks were appearing, slowly getting wider. I wanted to fix what was wrong, we arranged some time away together. Just us, we agreed.
He turned up on the first day.
I saw clearly then that she wasn’t interested enough to repair what was going wrong with us. I should have been heartbroken. I think I probably was. But I guess the cracks were big enough by then that the inevitability of it made it hurt less.
We spent that week together at the beach: her, me, him, some others. The feeling of loss and simmering resentment a vague memory now. When we left, I knew we were done, like you know it with partners and lovers. It was the end of school, a natural way to end it. I figured I’d outgrown her, or she me. I’m not sure which.
I never saw her again.
I watched this clip this morning, it made me smile: We were just like that. It still amazes me how fragile it was despite feeling as solid as a rock for so many years.