Leaning on my left shoulder is my girl friend. Not my actual girlfriend, but a girl friend. Even with as depressed and unwanted as I feel, I will admit to myself that she wants more than friendship from me. But to me, it just wouldn’t be right, Perhaps we’re only bonded by our mutual past heartbreak and disgust with the inhumanity of each other’s gender. I’m afraid after we get past that; they’ll be nothing else we have. And then there’s no turning back.
But she has emerged as really a good friend, the only one with whom I can talk about the only really important thing that bugs me: my ex-girlfriend. The one with whom I conversely love and hate, and often both at the same time. Whichever the emotion, I can’t get her out of my system.
My friend has sensed my sudden withdrawal from the world. “Are you okay?” she asks. “No,” I respond.
I’ve never cried in front of another person besides my mom when I was little. And it does actually get some things out of me and make things better. Certainly talking to my friend here is making me feel more positive that I can get over this girl. But I know another image of my ex will pop into my head, and the knot in my stomach that had just been loosened, will violently jerk tighter.
I could keep talking to this friend about everything I’ve been feeling for hours. I’ve begun to hate time by myself with a passion, yet I hate being mopey around people. I lack the strength to feign enjoyment. It’s too bad I don’t drink, and I don’t want to add to the teen suicide rate. And imagine how bad that would make my ex-girlfriend feel. I don’t want her to be unhappy. I think.
My friend nestles closer. She wants me to put my arm around her, but that’s not going to happen. “Are you really okay?” she says sweetly. “No,” I murmur, my voice barely audible, and not at all sure of itself. She kisses me on the cheek. She is a good friend.