2:00 a.m. - over ?

A few weeks ago, I stumbled upon my fifth-grade diary. Inside was a life I had almost forgotten: my own looping, uneven handwriting, jotting down the tiny things that felt enormous at the time. The pages were full of stick-figure thoughts, wide-eyed musings, and observations that made perfect sense to little me.

Some excerpts, for your reading pleasure:

March 15

We’re in Spain right now. We went to a wine garten. It was fun. I had my first cup of wine. I only liked the red desert one.

December 24

We’re in Santorini for Christmas and everything. I’ve been wanting to ride the donkeys but mama says its animal croolty. I hope the donkeys are OK.

February 5

My teacher is leaving because she is pregnant. Why do my teachers keep getting pregnant. I'm sad but I want to meet her baby. I hope it’s a girl.

As I turned the pages, I saw a name appear and appear again. My first best friend. The one who defined what "best friend" meant to me before I even understood the weight of the words.

We met when we were three. From then until seventh grade, we were inseparable. When I switched schools in sixth grade, it was like someone slowly dimmed the lights on a room we both loved. We tried to stay in touch by sending silly GIFs and the occasional text, but life inevitably pulled us into different stories. Eventually, she was no longer the person I first invited to my parties, no longer the person I texted when I had news.

The diary remembered what I had forgotten.

How she always brought extra sweet Rice Krispies on her birthday. How she knew I didn’t like sweet things and would watch me like a hawk to make sure I ate hers anyway.

How we made report cards for each other, grading each another in kindness, intelligence, empathy. We always got straight-A's.

How she was always Amy and I was Jo or Beth in our recess reenactments of Little Women.

How she taught me basketball, and I taught her how to draw.

How she played with my hair during reading time, and how we laughed until our lungs gave out playing video games in my mom’s car.

She was the sun of my childhood, and everything orbited around her. She was my "if you do it, I'll do it" person. I started piano, dance, theater, soccer, basketball all because she wanted to try it. She was the person stitched into every corner of my elementary school memories. Now, we just send each other birthday messages once a year. It wasn’t a fallout. It wasn’t anything, really. Just a quiet drift. I never knew someone who once meant the world to me could become a friendly stranger.

And then, last week, I took the ACT.

I was scanning the room when I saw her. Taller now, in a sky-blue hoodie, her dirty blonde hair tied back. Her eyebrows still angled low, sharp as ever. Her cheeks, still curved round and soft. She sat two rows behind me. When break rolled around, I waited outside the testing room. Then, she came out. She smiled that smile. The awkward one, the one I had seen hundreds of times when she was talking to someone she felt uncomfortable around. The one she only gave when she wasn’t sure what to say. She had never smiled at me like that before.

I wanted to ask about her life. How she was doing. If she was okay after losing her dog—the dog that had been there for so many of our shared memories. But all I said was,"How do you think you did?"

We chatted for a few minutes. Polite, surface-level words about college, grades, formulas. Then her friends came over. Mine did too. She faded back into her group. I stayed with mine. We were in the same room but living in two different orbits. For the first time, I didn’t follow her.

I have two Instagram accounts: a main and a spam. The spam’s reserved for the people I talk to constantly, the ones I could find in any crowd without hesitation. She’s still on my spam.

I thought about removing her. But I couldn’t. How could I, when she’s wrapped into the core of who I am? When I think of tea parties and matching plushies and whispered gossip in bathroom stalls, I think of her. When I open my jewelry box and see the left half of our “Best Friends” necklace, mine with the moon charm, I think of her. I wonder if she still has her half.

Maybe we’ll never be as close as we once were.But I know this: some people leave marks so deep they never fade. I don’t know if we’ll ever go back to being seven together again, but part of me will always carry her with me.

Cheers,

emma