Your Other Half

Dear Emma,

You were my best friend for eleven years. I knew you so well that I knew your entire wardrobe by heart—I even had a favorite shirt of yours: the white t-shirt with small blue butterflies and tiny ruffles on the sleeves. I knew the layout of your old house and the layout of your new one. You invited me to your grandparents’ place so many times that I can still picture every inch of it.

I loved your mom and dad. I teased your little brother like he was mine. I cuddled with your dog and bled when he bit me, just like he did with everyone else, and attempted to cuddle your cat, except she hated me and I was scared of her. I met your cousin often enough that she began to remember me, and I began to remember her and facts about her life.

I was invited to your grandpa’s birthday party because I was considered part of the family. I sat on the deck and watched the illegal fireworks explode in the sky while your grandma came around and served me cupcakes and chips, asking about my time at school.

You welcomed me to family dinners at your house because I was like a second daughter to your parents. When I came over to hang out, I had no problem rummaging through your pantry, because your mom had told me multiple times that I was allowed to eat whatever I wished. Your parents informed me that I should call them by their first names because I hung out with you so often, and your brother began to tease not just you, but me as well.

We were two peas in a pod, thick as thieves, best friends forever, whatever you wanted to call it. We got along like peanut butter and jelly, like a house on fire, and through thick and thin.

And then in sixth grade, Olive came back from Cyprus.

She’d moved there after second grade, and I had been a little glad, because she was the third person in our group when it should have only been two.

You liked Olive. I was still your best friend, but she was a close second, so obviously, I wasn’t a fan of her. I smiled and was polite when she talked to me, but I was glad when she left for the other side of the world, because how could you be friends with someone who’s that far away? Cyprus was seven hours ahead of us! No way could you be friends with someone who was in a different time zone.

But you texted her, called her, and went to visit her.

I didn’t tell you how much it hurt my feelings because you were allowed to have other friends, and besides, I was the one who saw you more. I hadn’t moved, and whenever you came back from visiting her, I was ready to take over the best friend duties.

But then Olive returned from Cyprus.

And suddenly I was sitting alone at carpool, I walked behind you two on the sidewalk, I sat across from you and and you sat next to her at lunch.

She was labeled “My Other Half <3” in your phone, and I was just labeled “Sarah,” and this was wildly unfair because I hadn’t up and left for another country. I was the one who bonded with you over books, I was the one you invited to your annual neighborhood fair, I was the one you went trick-or-treating with, even when you were sick with a cold.

But she was your other half, and nothing could beat that.

We graduated from elementary school, and even though the three of us were all going to different schools, at least she wasn’t going to yours, because that meant I had an equal chance at staying in touch with you.

Friendships broke up all the time after leaving school, but not ours. I wouldn’t let it.

I ran down to the tennis courts when you played a match at my school, I invited you over to my house on the weekends, and I texted you my thoughts on the book that had just come out in our favorite book series.

In return, you sent photos of your dog, asked me to sleep over, and invited me to your grandparents’ house to go boating.

But seventh grade turned into eighth grade, and the invites became fewer, the texts became shorter, and our calls became less often.

It was always me who reached out, always me who started the conversation.

So I stopped texting.

And I didn’t hear from you for weeks.

Looking back, I think it’s good that we grew apart. We had different interests and different tastes in friends. You loved clothes, and I didn’t. I loved bugs, and you didn’t. People say opposites attract, and we did, but eventually our magnets rusted over and stopped working. We were, and are, two entirely different people.

If I walked past you now on the sidewalk, I would think that we have wholly different personalities, two puzzle pieces that won’t jam together no matter how hard you try. We would struggle to find things to talk about. We would have to resort to mundane things like chatting about the weather or asking how school is going. We wouldn’t fall back into conversations like our old selves would, gossiping about conspiracy theories and debating whether we would rather kiss Liam or Tom.

But it still hurts to think about you. I want to know how your brother is, how your parents are doing, and how your grandparents are. I want to know about you. I want to sit down with you and go over every inch of your life since I last saw you years ago. I want to ask about your crushes, about your friends, about your dreams. Is your favorite color still pink? Is your bedspread comforter the same as it was when I was last in your room? Is your dream job still the same?

We were best friends for over a decade, and now I’m stuck watching your life through Instagram stories.

Love,

Sarah

*All names have been changed, including mine.*