In Washable Ink

A secret letter from a former friend to another.

 On a preconscious level, you must still be important to me. I dream of us meeting casually beside the river, just talking. You were my best friend, and maybe you still are. In fact, I thought of you as a sibling and I loved you just as much. But we ignore one another because of an imprinted scar. You might have made yours into a tattoo, but I’ve only drawn mine in washable ink. Why must you hate me? And why must I think this thick and resent you?

    Do you remember the times I let you drive the car? You didn’t even have a license, and I was still a minor. Though older than you, I trusted you since you were wiser than your years, perhaps wiser than me. And the engine grew hot because of how far we’d gone. I can shuffle through these memories and draw so many out since there are so many to shuffle through and to draw out. We’ve shared so much with one another, and how can I forget you? I didn’t tolerate you, as you’d probably think. And I hope you didn’t tolerate me. Because I held, and still hold, you in high esteem and enjoyed every minute we spent together. You’re all grown up and perhaps leaving me behind before I can pick up the pieces I’ve broken and weld them back together. For that’s what you’ve always wanted to do. Leave your settled friends and family. I was both, and now I’m only half.

    Before I say anything stupid, this is all I’d truly like to say: I’m honestly sorry, and you know how honest I can be.

The End

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