Think about the first person you would run to if you were to encounter a problem. It may be a family member; it may be a friend. For me, it was my best friend: we have been friends for thirteen years and counting. However, the “best” of the friendship was never meant to last forever.
We fit together like puzzle pieces. She was our art; I was our brain.
We were stuck, not being able to last more than two weeks away from each other.
This friendship was one not only known to the two of us, but everyone around us:
“Sorry, I might have to cancel today.”
“Oh is she calling you out to hang again…?”
“Yea, gotta go now!”
“Who are you going out with?”
“Her.”
And just like that, I was answering “Her” left and right with no hesitation. And she did the same.
Long story short, we were addicted to each other. Well, at least I know I was addicted to her.
I was conscious: my money, my trust, my time, my mental stability. A painting. “Her lover.” The sidewalk rule, frequent surprise gifts, her going home first, lending and giving her money without hesitation upon request, you name it. In return, she would put me first on her hangout list. Anything you can think of when you hear “boyfriend,” I’ve done it for her. My parents were well aware, better than anyone else.
April 2017.
Her 12th birthday was approaching. She had been eyeing the AirPods ever since they came out. My impulses did it again. It became a one-versus-two battle: a hard-headed twelve-year-old who spent money like it was nothing just for a friend versus two adults who earned money for the family.
These always ended with one sentence: “Don’t trust everything you see, even talk looks like sugar.”
It was left at that.
Fall 2017.
A new girl fidgeted in her seat next to the afterschool program director we attended ever since kindergarten. An introverted seventh grader with glasses. We were in charge of becoming buddy-buddy with her. Park hangouts, food crawls, shopping trips, family struggles: we became three peas in a pod. A new flower to a finished painting.
Summer 2022.
Quarantine babied my craving: my addiction worsened. Fresh out of quarantine, we spent all the time together: our summer job, picking her up from her internship, 30-minute shopping dates, dinner runs. However, she soon shifted her focus: her first real crush that seemed to show the same interest in her. They never came to be. He did irreversible damage. She entered her first heartbreak. She dropped everything else, including the other two peas in her pod. Subconsciously, I dropped everything. Our middle friend tried to pull us out: it didn’t work. Compensation was all I could do; compensation for the harm I never inflicted. More time. More money. This became the norm.
Fall 2022.
It was our senior year. It was her first relationship. I had my second real crush.
“Oh, I told our mutual friend that you liked this ugly nerdy guy from your precalc class lol.”
That should’ve been the first raging siren.
College app time. Up at 5:30 a.m., going to high schools in the Bronx and Brooklyn. Fall asleep in all classes. Out 5:30 p.m., grinding in the Flushing Queens Library for her personal statement while she finished up her homework. My wallet paid for our dinners. Our “get home safeeee” texts. Home at 10 p.m. at the earliest. Up till 3 a.m. on my homework grind. Repeat.
Raging siren number two.
Spring 2023.
Her breakup. The trauma her two friends were supposed to mend. She had been engulfed and put her everything on top; we weren’t included. I had a new role: her emotion trash can. Her struggles were pushed over mine. My effort was invalidated. My struggles didn’t matter. It was her conversation now. My conversation turned into replies. Her conversations turned into silence in front of me and became someone else’s. A corked champagne bottle with nowhere to release.
July 2023.
Daily texts became every-other-day texts. Every-other-day texts became weekly texts. My craving kicked in. I needed her presence. My body lying motionless in complete darkness, silent tears rolling down my cheeks with my sister dead asleep next to me: “Please don’t leave me…” No sense of time, only sense of hope. Clutching onto my phone, tapping and dialing tirelessly. One ring, two rings, three rings, four. I was stuck in a capsule.
August 2023.
It burst. I was left broken in a parking lot smothered in black paint.
“Please, save me. I just want her back.”
“She’s not the bestie we know anymore. It’s been off since the end of junior year. She’s never going to initiate it. If it’s with you, she will never work for what she wants.”
“I just want her to reach out to me for once… Is it too much to ask for…?”
My close friend. Her firmness. Her presence witnessing everything for the past six years. She held my hands, yelling at me to think straight, look straight. I crumbled, unable to recall anything.
“She took you for granted. Everyone around you knew. It was only you.”
I have never questioned her effort but nitpicked mine. I had nowhere to go. One by one, my struggles unfolded. I now have only one person I would run to. This close friend was the person next me through every moment, supporting me without me coming to notice it.
“It’s okay. You can do this. Give more credit to yourself. You’ve literally done everything you could. It hurts me to see you like this.”
Conversation after conversation. Reply after reply. There was nothing left for me to do in this friendship. My money that she never gave back. The confidential “besties” information. This hammer kept on banging on the glass wall of my mental stability. I crumbled under the constantly rising expectations. Her ideal “boyfriend” isn’t a part of me anymore. I had no vison left for her as a best friend.
“You have been her asset that she took pride in for thirteen years and counting.”
Her expectations will be kept as her expectations that she will never come to realize. My one-sided input was out of moderation. My side of the seesaw sank to the ground as hers flew to the sky. Many of all my eggs in the basket I handed to her dropped to the ground. It should never have been all-in.
Even beautiful paintings need maintenance.