By

~

We crossed the road together coming home after school. I was 7.

"You're the girl who hurt herself on the school trip aren't you?"

I stared down at the scar on my hand left by the barbed wire and muttered "Yes."

"That was funny..." And away she skipped down the path to her home leaving me still staring at where the metal had torn my flesh.

---

We became friends over the next few years. Slowly. Inevitably: because looking back I pursued her. I waited on that same corner for her on the way to school so we would "accidentally" bump into one another and have an excuse to talk.

After a while it became routine, expected. But, one time she never showed up. She was sick, I would find out that night as I knocked on her door having finally cracked and needing to know why. That morning though, I stood in the rain for an hour waiting for her, long after the school bell rung. And got soaked. I never went into to school that day. I sat in the park and wondered why I felt empty. Like a part of me had been stolen away. Would I ever get it back?

---

She had a string of bad relationships around the time we were Sixteen. She was flirty. Sexually provocative. Boys liked her for that. And then they got bored.

By now I knew I had a crush on her. But I tried to fight it. It wasn't normal to like another girl. And it was creepy to have a crush on your best friend.

Each time she came to my bedroom with a smuggled 1/4 bottle of vodka and a broken heart I grew more envious and angry despite myself. She would cry, get drunk and throw up then fall asleep on my bed. Every time some boy hurt her. All the while I made excuses to my parents, hugged her, smoothed her brow and told myself this was the last time. Either she'd realise we were 'meant to be' or I would stop trying to pick up the pieces of her heart and put them back together again for some one else to break.

---

Several more 'last times' later she stood before me in a short, black sequined dress. She was trying to get me to slow dance with her. Her arms were around my body and she gazed up into my eyes. I bent down to kiss her, as she close her eyes but stopped myself. Her nose bore the scar of her most recent misadventure. A man who beat her and forced her when she tried to say no.

Though it seemed to me like at last she wanted me to kiss her I decided now was not the time. After what she'd been through I knew she needed me as a friend more. So I held her tight while she sobbed. I never knew what for.

She met a new man that night, at the party she'd got dressed up for before heading to mine (vodka in her handbag as usual). She fell in love, got married and had kids. From that day on she didn't need me anymore. And I only ever saw her in passing. From best friends to estranged without a crossed word.

---

Years later I was reeling from a breakup. I stumbled down High Street looking for somewhere to get shots to numb the pain. I bumped into her then and she took pity on me. She dragged me to her favourite bar and ploughed me drinks with flirtatious names as I told her all about my ex and all but one of the reasons why he was so totally wrong for me.

After a while she looked really serious and asked me why I hadn't kissed her that night. "Didn't you want to? I thought you loved me...?"

After so many years keeping my true feelings a secret I was shocked to hear them spoken aloud. "But, you didn't love me." Was it a statement or a question? I couldn't tell. But it was all I could get out while holding back the tears as I stared at the scar on my hand. For a while we sat in a sad silence. I detected no anger or reproach in her demeanour but I got no other clue as to how my words had hit her.

When said our goodbyes and she left. I wept openly and without shame right there in the bar. I tried to work out: Was I the victim or the villain in this story? I hated myself in that moment whichever way.

----

I've never seen her in the ten years since. We share mutual friends on Facebook of course but neither of us has clicked "Add Friend". Because we are not friends. She seems happy in her life.

I'm not. As I continue to chase endless, imperfect versions of her from one doomed romance to the next. I know I gave up my one best chance to be happy.