The Absolutely True Translation of Paul's Ex-Friendship

People just don't tell honest stories anymore. There's always a twist. People want their side to be the only one that's heard. What's missing in the world, is a true black-and-white story of friendship. We all have them fail. Where are the stories that fail? Honestly.

Moment 1: Blue Rain 

There is blue rain falling outside my window.  
I watch as it falls onto the uneven sidewalks 10 feet away from my windowsill, torn apart by construction.  Above me, the gray clouds hover menacingly, looking large enough to swallow everything up, cement and all, including the hard hat that damn construction worker forgot.  In the meantime, everything outside stands completely still, as though it is waiting to be eaten. 
It's a strange picture.  I wonder where the normality is; wonder if I just am not seeing it again.  
Blue rain and uneven sidewalks; storms without wind. 

  It's on days like this where I remember the most.   I can picture each moment in perfect detail; every breath and tear and heartbeat.  I picture it and feel it.  It goes right through me, eating away at my core, making me unaware that the feelings I am having are very old.  To me, time heals everything, just like the looming weeks in front of me will fix the uneven sidewalks.  Moms tell you that time will fix everything, as do teachers and story books and actual friends and fake friends and hell, even strangers.  With their logic, a year has not passed yet.  Everything is still pretty messed up.  

The blue rain rolls down my window, looking stupidly like tears.  I think about it running on my cheek, but I can't imagine what it would feel like.  Instead, I feel like I am losing my mind.  Slowly, piece by piece, I am falling apart.  I know that people at school would laugh at me for feeling this way.  I could never explain the strange sensation to them, like half of me was just outside my grasp.  Like I could keep searching and thinking and being angry, but I would never remember what I was trying to.  

Being angry.  God, I always remembered that part.  Being angry came with being human, but what people don't tell you is that no amount of time can make anger go away.  Sadness, maybe.  Laughter, maybe.  But anger stays with someone, ready to bite whenever one cares to remember the source of the hate.  My source was her.  I want to blame her.  Everyone else does.  Logically, their arguments make sense.  But just as anger doesn't go away, neither do memories, or at least not the ones you want to go away.  There were too many stories, too much laughter to forget.  These antidotes show me another girl that no one else can even imagine.  

I wanted to help her; to put her in the light so that maybe she could be forgiven.  But I don't, not because it is impossible, but because a small part of me hates her too.  So, I am stuck watching rain that should be clear fall outside my window, drowning me in teenage angst and anger and memories, keeping me in a ongoing state of denial.  

If this were a movie, everyone would be on my side.  Actually, everyone is anyway, but for some reason that isn't enough.  You see, the biggest question now is moving past the storm.  The aftermath.  Forgetting that you didn't once have a kitchen in that field before all that wind came; that there used to be ants on that sidewalk, stirred up by construction and pushed away by a flood.  The thing is, however, that the people you know aren't like kitchens or ants at all, and their memories are insanely hard to forget.  Especially when you realize that you don't fall in love with ants or kitchens.  

You fall in love with your best friends.  



The End

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