I realised today that I can't even remember the last time I spoke to you. I sent you a text, I remember that. When was that? Two, three weeks ago? I couldn't say, because I delete all my sent messages, but I can still tell you what it said. It said this:

Bekah, I miss talking like we used to. We used to tell each other everything, and now it's like we're on different planets.

It's so true. I remember telling you all my secrets; you were the first person to know which guys I liked, and when I was depressed you were the only one ever to see my scars until they were just the faded brown lines they are today. But now, we don't even talk.

When we saw each other a couple of weeks ago, we didn't say hello. Nor did we speak the week after that, and this weekend you were away on church weekend. Fair enough. I haven't said hello, or goodbye, or how are you ... well, in the whole of September. Longer perhaps, Bekah.

I allowed myself to believe that things were getting better with Lark in the Park and Soul Survivor. We talked, we hung out, everything seemed fine. Yet suddenly I discovered the Friday nights without me, the not wanting to go to youth group with me but to stay in the surface with Fern ... that sort of thing. Like you'd grown up so much because you were seven months older than me.

I don't know what it is, but there's something about our friendship which makes me angry. I can't work out whether it's my fault or not, that's the real problem, and so I don't know if there's anything I can do.

Well, perhaps now I don't want to.

Your old friend,


The End

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