She was my best friend. Or, at least, I thought she was. She talked to spiders, impersonated Elvis, played Halo, and went skinny dipping in her backyard pond. And I was right there with her every step of the way.

We had hour long conversations on the phone, talking about dogs, receipts, the pond, and crazy things our friends did that we couldn’t believe, in a time where boys were fantasies and our parents seemed to know the answer to everything. She was there for me when no one else was, and we learned about the birds and the bees together. I loved her like a sister, and she was the first person I ever called my best friend.

Then seventh grade came around. She still loved spiders and Halo, but Elvis and the pond became the least of her concerns. Boys were everything she talked about, and I became a background character. More and more I became ‘the friend in the middle of everything’. She had a new sister, a new best friend to replace me. I didn’t go swimming with her anymore, and she would give me one syllable answers on the phone. Eventually, she stopped eating lunch with us. She didn’t talk to me anymore. I held onto the naïve notion that it wasn’t my fault, that I was still her friend.

One day, our mutual Spanish teacher gave us a new seating arrangement. When we paired up together, she claimed she didn’t want to sit by me. My bright smile faded and I asked the obvious question. “Why?” She replied with an answer that broke my heart.

“Because I don’t LIKE YOU!” I felt like crying. My best friend was gone. Gone. When the end of the day finally came, I couldn’t handle it. Something inside me just…broke. I cried, and cried. For hours upon hours. By the end of that year, though I’ll never admit it, I was depressed. Crushed inside, forced to be alone. My friends were all leaving me, or had already left me, and I was helpless. I carried my books close to my chest and wore sweaters that made me look fat. My face broke out into acne that made me look horrible, and I never did anything after school.

The next year, she came to me with an apology. It wasn’t my fault after all, it was all about two people in my old group. I was just collateral damage. She made it sound like she was my savior or something, and that I was still her friend. That’s why I believed her. I’d been scarred and left for the wolves, and I just wanted a chance to be normal again.

But what she did to me isn’t something that can be easily forgiven. We had changed in the few months when she hated me. I wasn’t so innocent, so naïve. She was more serious, and friends with people who acted like they were my friends, but in the end turned out to be lying as much as her. After a while I started slipping back into my old ways, wearing sweatshirts and generally not caring what people thought of me. I wore ponytails, glasses, and the same shoes and jeans every day. It was worse than before.

I never talked. I stayed in my room all the time. I lied to myself, saying all was well in my life. I wanted so badly to believe that, I ignored the obvious. I wasn’t the same. I felt sick everyday at school.

Finally, after almost two years, my parents stepped in. My father gave me the option to change schools, and when I asked her about it, she just said it was my choice. She didn’t want anything to do with it. It was MY choice. But when I made my decision, I never thought I’d never speak to her again.

My family and friends keep telling me I need to do something about it, but I can’t. It keeps eating me up inside, and every time I see her or hear about her a twisting feeling comes in to my stomach. It hurts. So much.
If there is one thing I know for sure, it’s that I can’t trust her again. I can’t go through that again. Because if I do, it just might kill me.