A fictional throwaway letter to an old friend

Jun,

I heard our song on the radio on the way home today. I thought about calling you. But I thought we’d leave off where we were before—superficial and dishonest. We would talk about how life is going, shooting the shit about work and the trials and tribulations of motherhood, something you hint you’re doing better in. I would be busy, as I always was when you’d call me, and then you would have more to say to my friend next to me than to me, just like one of the last times when you and her shared the hardships of making friends. You both told me how lucky I was with how easily I could talk to people and make small talk. I listened and joked about how I could talk to a tree and be content. You mentioned the first words I ever spoke to you on the school bus in 4th grade to my friend: “I know where you live.”

Which you replied, “Where?” As we rode by, I pointed at your house, and you told me, “Then you should come over.” I did, and we became best friends; the rest was history. That’s what we told people. It’s a comical story. Of course, my friend laughed at this and said it was “typical of me.” And she wasn’t wrong. I was an amiable and outgoing child who loved playing outside more than anything, and you were a shy and reverted kid who loved staying inside. “Opposites attract,” as they say. You showed me many shows I wasn’t allowed to watch, such as The Simpsons and Ren and Stimpy, even showing me my first scary movie (scary for a child anyway), Sleepy Hollow. I tried showing you the joys of nature as we walked around the quiet and secluded trail connecting our houses, where we caught frogs and cornsnakes. It’s funny to think how much you rave about nature and how much I keep to myself now.

“Somewhere only we know” is two places in my mind: the sewer’s opening in front of your old apartment complex and the connecting trail in our old neighborhood. I don’t even know why. It’s not like we went to the sewer’s opening much, but I remember you telling me it was your favorite place in the whole complex with its small capture of an Eden’s Garden.

That apartment complex holds so many memories for us. Do you remember the head apartment lady? She was always so mad at us, yelling at us to stop snooping around the assumed sewer system in the middle of the parking lot. It was always fenced in, with overgrown weeds towering over it. I don’t even remember how we got in–but you did. You always knew a way. That’s what I admired about you. It’s weird. When I was with you, my fear seemed to wash away. I could do anything I would never do alone when I was with you, like when we broke into a vacant apartment, calling it our “hideout,” which only lasted for a few days until the apartment lady deadbolted the door shut.

You know, I still drink tea and eat chocolate during my period. We started that tradition back in 5th grade when you told me it was your mom’s menstrual trick. Lipton tea and Hershey’s chocolate–a placebo that helped us through the early cramps of our blossoming adolescence. To think that was almost 20 years ago. Though, the Styrofoam table we had made shifted, with built-in cupholders and was just the size for two 10-year-old kids in their mother’s oversized T-shirts, still echoes through my mind when I think about what happened to us.

That’s not the only thing stuck on replay when thinking about us, though. I think about the comments and the competition. That’s what I’d say our downfall was. Though, when I first mentioned my feelings about the strained rivalry, you only seemed to deny it. But, there was competition. You had sex before me, you were dating before me, you had smoked weed before me- the only thing I accidentally beat you on was having a child, a child that you believed wasn’t getting taken care of properly. You would hint at it, straight-up telling me my child was malnourished with too many men around her.

“Can I be honest here?” You asked over the phone a year after your daughter was born.

“Sure,” I said.

“I think you’re a bad mom.” Of course, I stopped what I was doing.The only things flashing in my mind were the doubtful comments from family members, but this time, they came from my best friend. I tried to compose myself, trying not to show you any kind of reaction, as you continued, “I know you’re trying, but is it good enough?” At this point, I was bawling. No matter how hard I tried to hide it, you knew.

All I said was, “No,” as you apologized.

I don’t even know what we were talking about before this happened. I know you apologized for this years later. You apologized for a lot of things. For the time you spent at my house when our babies were 2, and you got mad at me for forgetting to buy you a sandwich on my way home from work–the same night I invited my boyfriend-at-the-time over to meet you. You left early that trip. I believe you tried hiding your true feelings, but I knew why. However, at the time, I was apathetic.

After rekindling and talking through our mistakes years later, I thought our next visit would be different, but it only followed the same pattern. This time, I fully believed it was your fault. To be honest, I dreaded this visit. You might’ve left your daughter at home, but it only gave you more attention to focus on my parenting style.

“You know, I’m concerned about her weight,” you told me as we walked around the neighborhood where I lived at the time. After hearing so many comments about how thin she was, I was tired of it and amazed that you didn’t realize this.

“The doctors say she’s developing fine,” I told you–no–snapped at you. You noticed the change like I knew you would.

“You always seem to get mad at me when I mention Amelia.”

“Because you make it seem like I’m not a good mother,” I was anxious when saying this. I’ve never tried to stand up to you before. I was always scared for fear of retaliation.

“I just think you need to consider what I say,” you said. And how could I argue with that? You were right, and I hated that—because you always were. So, I let it go.

The next day, we went out to a Five Below and decided to have a girls’ night as we rummaged through all the spa supplies and face masks. You wanted it just to be us, and I agreed. But I never should’ve agreed. It wasn’t realistic, just like when you wanted to sit next to me when I picked you up from the airport, forcing my new boyfriend to sit in the backseat. I could tell he was pissed, and I was a bit irritated, too.

After Amelia went to sleep, we started painting our nails. Then, my boyfriend walked in, and that’s when things went downhill. I know you didn’t hate him, but it felt familiar like it had happened before.

The whole night, you were on my patio talking on the phone with your boyfriend. I didn’t understand at the time. It’s not like my boyfriend was with us; he was in our bedroom, where he remained for the rest of the night. But you didn’t care for technicalities. Technically, to you, it wasn’t “just us.” I remember thinking how dramatic you were being, that it wasn’t a big deal. I remember texting you: “We can still have a girls’ night.”

I remember you saying, “That’s not the point. He’s still here.” So, on the floor is where I remained. I thought all of the drama was pointless.

“You know, I think we both have changed,” I apathetically texted you. After mountains of paragraphs and beating around the bush, I finally said, “Maybe we’re not meant to be friends anymore.”

You simply replied, “You’re probably right.”

After that visit, we didn’t talk for years, except the times you called when you needed a friend. Those conversations were better, and I regained hope in our friendship. You told me how immature you used to be and how you have changed–an apology I waited to receive for years. I really thought we could start anew, but little did I know I still needed time to grow.

This phone call is when I finally told you how I felt. I told you how tired I was of all the competition and how I have always felt judged by you on numerous occasions, not only about the times you bragged that your delivery was smooth sailing, being praised by the nurses for how well you could breathe through the pain, or how your daughter had started articulating her emotions at age 3.

“You’re like a doormat, and I’m like a bubble, never wanting to let people in,” You told me when we were in 5th grade. I was offended, but you at least tried to cushion the blow with the distraction of your inner feelings. However, I didn’t always get this luxury.

“I think this guy’s the one,” I told you during a phone call in high school.

“You say that about every guy,” You replied matter-of-factly.

“No, I don’t.”

“Face it, you don’t even know what love is.”

You had forgotten about these passing comments, but these moments shaped my view of you and, especially, myself.

“You can’t be without a guy. At least I have been with the same guy for many years,” You told me one day. I can’t even remember when. It was like you were the devil on my shoulder, shouting my insecurities directly through my ear canal. The once admirable trait of honesty had become my worst fear and major trigger whenever you called. And after some time, our phone calls seemed to die away. I was grateful for this. I told myself you were a toxic person and only brought me unhappiness.

I still couldn’t tell you everything. But, you told me some truths that day.

“You know, I was always jealous of you.” You were always honest, but you never admitted you were wrong. So when you told me this, I immediately let my guard down.

“Why?” I asked.

“I’ve been stuck in the same relationship for years with a man I no longer love. But your child didn’t stop you from leaving yours.”

I’m going to be honest; I didn’t expect that. You always judged me for serial dating, yet you praised me for leaving my daughter’s father because you never felt you could. You told me you didn’t understand my postpartum depression until you had your daughter taken away because of a stupid mistake you told your therapist. For many months, I was under watchful eyes, fearing that Amelia would one day leave me either by force or by me—times you told me would never happen to you, but then it did. It wasn’t believable. You always seemed well and on top of things. I started thinking, “Maybe I was the one judging too harshly,” quietly wishing you would fail.

Though, while your words lingered, the feeling I had when you initially told me didn’t, and this conversation was lost to years of radio silence. The night you called me while I was taking my friend to the hospital, we started a conversation about how I seem to have a new friend every time you call. Months later, you called me again as I was with the same friend, but I was helping her move this time and couldn’t talk much. That night, I called you back. We started talking about where we were in life and the usual child-wellness questions.

As I grew tired of pleasantries, I decided to share my honesty.

“Juniper?”

“Yes?”

“You remember talking with my friend about how easily I can make friends?”

“Yeah, why?”

“Well, I know you won’t believe me, but making friends and talking with strangers comes naturally to me, but keeping friends is foreign and impossible. I have lost so many friends.”

You didn’t seem to know this, nor did I until recently. It took me a while to realize how much I focused on myself and my emotions for years, and I’m still processing how friendship should work.

“I never would’ve thought,” You said, “You were always so charismatic.”

This was another thing you were jealous about, but you didn’t seem to harp on it much. The conversation died there as we continued to talk as if it never happened. I assume, anyway. Though this was the last time we talked, I don’t remember what else was said. There was no conclusion, only stagnation.

---

That was two years ago now. Sometimes, I think about calling you—or even texting you—especially when our song plays. Where only good memories lie.

“This could be the end of everything… So why don’t we go somewhere only we know?”

Sometimes, I feel like this song was made for us as a way to send us back to the times we recreated Michael Jackson concerts in my living room and developed scheming plans in the local library like it was a playground. No matter how many times I replay the song, I never remember your negativity and my pettiness. It’s almost like magic.

Initially, I hoped to write this to share the true feelings I had kept all these years. I wanted to tell you how I missed us and how much I have and have yet to grow. But reading back at this now, I don’t know if I should even send it, especially since I’m still holding on to your judgments, and I feel I wouldn’t be able to be myself when talking to you. Not like I could before. We’re strangers now, after all. Plus, you would be angry if I did send it, regardless of what sugar-coated fluff I inserted at the end. And how could I blame you? I was an awful friend. I still am. You still are. A 20-year friendship flushed down the toilet because we grew up and couldn’t juggle the changes. You gave unmasked brutal honesty while I tried showing you how great my truthfully tragic life was as a means to escape it. But it never worked.

Do you remember what we told each other when we were little?

“We should live together when we grow up!” You said.

“Yeah! Our kids will become best friends, too!”

Then, it changed a little in high school:

“Do you still want to live together when we’re adults?” I asked you.

You pondered, then said, “Maybe we could live next to each other. That way, our husbands won’t get too tired of us.” We laughed at our nonexistent spouses, getting annoyed that they could never find us because we would always be with each other.

We roll our eyes at our childish ideas now, a little hope and wonder, still fond of always being close to our best friend. But we’re not best friends anymore, are we? For decades, that’s what we called each other. Do you know what I call you now? My ex-best friend. Not out of spite but out of reality.

How did we get here, Juniper? How did I get to resent you? How did I get to the point of quarreling about whether I should even contact you? It was my fault you left early that visit I forgot to buy you a sandwich, which was never about the sandwich. It was my fault you hated me after I told you it would only be us when it really wasn’t. It’s my fault I’ve never apologized to you for all the problems my selfishness caused us. I want to text you and explain all my mistakes in our friendship, but I also contemplate the point of it. What would apologizing do if I’m too scared to even text you and am still letting go of the past? Even if I did establish it was only for closure, I could get sucked into trying to work things out anyway. Or maybe, I’m being too optimistic. Maybe you have the same idea as I do.

I sometimes think about the line I tell people when they lose dear friends to growing up.

“Some people are meant to be in your life for a short period, but they always have a purpose. Sometimes, it was to show you a lesson; others, it was for moral support in your hour of need. But the people in your life will always be important in shaping who you are.”

Maybe our friendship was meant to end a decade ago. Maybe we have been trying to escape fate this whole time, and all it has done is burden us with avoidable consequences. I mean, no one can escape fate. But then, maybe hearing our song on the radio was fate telling me it’s not over yet. Or maybe the tempting curiosity is guiding my thoughts and words.

I guess I really wanted to say I love you, Juniper, like a middle-aged divorced couple before convincing their children that it wasn’t their fault. We’re not best friends, and we’re not little anymore. And that’s okay. I may send this to you one day when I find it in my attic, where all the other childhood memories will stay. Right next to the half-typed paper explaining how our friendship started, unscathed in a tattered faux leather portfolio.

For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.

Your forgotten rival,

Anna