I never thought that I would be embarrassed to be friends with you, and it isn’t what you think—I’m fortunate enough to know that.
I want to tell you how embarrassed I am when you’re loud (but not obnoxious), outgoing (but not assertive), but I can’t.
I can’t because I’m too quiet (still), private (secretive), and I don’t know how to say what I want to say.
I don’t know where you are right now because you never told me when you left. I should have asked, but I wouldn’t have known how. All I do know is that it wasn’t your fault and it wasn’t mine. We don’t talk anymore; we haven’t for a long time.
“That happens sometimes,” our mothers said. “Friends come and go. That’s life.”
But life’s stern rules didn’t apply to us when we were small and identical in every whichway. We practiced magic spells (stolen from Harry Potter, made up from the origins of the dictionary) in your bedroom closet, where the door was just a simple bedsheet pulled to the side. We slurped the packaged ramen your brother prepared for us because we were too clumsy and he was too lazy, but it tasted like what we imagined the “real thing” to be.
Sometimes I reminisce on these things with a warm smile, and I can’t help but wonder if you do, too. I like to think so, but something tells me otherwise. When we arrived at our new high school, dewy-eyed and soft-skinned, you changed—but perhaps I did, too. You made new friends like you always did, but this time you didn’t forget their names and you saw them everyday and you liked the same things they did—I did, too. I stayed to myself (contained) and hated myself (self-explanatory) for it. I wanted to be like you, and I was embarrassed for wanting to be like you because high school is the age of being yourself, but I didn’t want to and I didn’t know how. I didn’t know a lot of things then, and I still don’t know.
If you could read this now—I wish you would, but I know you can’t, won’t, because you wouldn’t remember us anymore.