I was 16 when I met her. I had switched my volunteer shift at the hospital from Thursdays to Wednesdays, and the first memory that I recall is her sitting on a stool behind the coffee bar, decked out in corduroy pants and a pair of Pumas. She was nothing extraordinary – the typical blonde-hair and blue-eyed appeal, she was just there.

We volunteered several times together, and hung out here and there, but most of our conversations were through texts, even though we used to say we belonged in the 80s. We were products of Generation Y, and our relationships with the phones we had were always transitory – from Samsung products to the Blackberry and finally a settled pact with iPhones. The hundreds of texts we exchanged daily was the hallmark of our close friendship, as we lived on opposite sides of town.

There were bumps in the road, but for the most part, the distance seemed trivial.

And then I moved cities two years ago, because I felt our small hometown could not sustain the dreams of city lights I romantically sought.

I want you to look to me as if it hasn’t changed me for the worse.

It has though, I can’t pretend I don’t see it.

So I returned this summer. And so did all our little complications, my frustrations, and her emotional unavailability. The flimsy footbridge was undermined.

Things aren’t good, they haven’t been for awhile – maybe I just need to not text you every day. 

We had a conversation at 6 in the morning yesterday.

This is what I’m saying, you can’t handle the truth and you’re dragging this on even more. Be an adult for once.

And that leads to today, and although I have my uncertainties, I cannot undo that bitter exchange. She belongs to my memories now.

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