Too Late to Be Sad

Too Late to be Sad

She posted the old pictures on her Snapchat story for the old friend’s birthday. She didn’t really know why she did it. They weren’t even friends on Snapchat so it’s not like her friend would see the pictures and remember. You know, remember all the good times; all the laughs and songs and sleepovers and all the times they both knew, without a doubt, that they were the best of best friends.

She wasn’t even sure if the old friend remembered those times. Every time she brought them up, the old friend would hardly respond. Had the friend forgotten? Had she simply just forgotten? But how could something that hurts someone so badly be forgotten by another? How could a thought that penetrates one’s heart not be thought of by the one who penetrated it? Or rather, had it hurt the old friend just as much that she didn’t know how to respond?

Thoughts and memories raced through her mind as she posted the pictures. The old friend wouldn’t see them, so what was the point? Maybe it was comforting to see all the old memories be displayed, but she didn’t know what to do with the memories. Should she love them or leave them? How do you love something that broke your heart? But how do you leave something that had enough power to break your heart?

The mind games were tiring for her. All the glances across the lunch table that they both knew they shared. All the times they made eye contact and simply smiled. She thought it didn’t bother her anymore. She thought she could handle being in the old friend’s presence. She didn’t realize that every glance was a stab to the heart. But why? How much power could a glance possibly have that would make it feel like a stab to the heart?

She remembered the way they used to look at each other. They looked at each other the way best friends do. It’s a hard look to describe because only those who have had a friend that close know the look. It’s a comforting glance. It’s an assuring glance. It’s not the glance she got from across the table. Sure, her old friend would smile, but she knows how the old friend looks at a best friend. She would know that look better than anyone. It was no longer that comforting, reassuring glance that kept her going. No, this glance was different. It was the kind of glance you give to just anyone. She realized now that she was just anyone.

The old friend’s glance was a stab to the heart.

She doesn’t know what happened between them. Neither of them hurt the other to the point where their friendship would be at stake. All she could think of was time. Once she transferred to her new school, they began to talk less and less, and then not at all. She tried to keep contact, but the old friend didn’t respond. They say that time changes people, but she never believed that. She thought that time didn’t matter, that what they shared could not be taken by time’s deadly hands, but she was wrong. Time can kill. Time killed the old glance she used to get. It drowned their conversations, it strangled their laughs, it poisoned their bond. It killed the friendship she thought could never die.

She knew she should have cared more before. She should have called when they were apart. She should have made more efforts to see the old friend. She should have done more, but you can only think of what you should have done for so long until you need to accept what you did. She accepted that she cannot change the past, but rather remember what she did wrong and do it right the next time around.

The old friend has new friends now. The old friend shares her laughs and smiles with other people now. She's happy. And as for the "she"—she's me. And I have new friends now—best friends, rather, and we laugh and sing and have sleepovers and look at each other the way best friends do; the way my old friend and I did.

I hold back my tears; it’s too late to be sad.