Dying Star 🌟

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I have a friend who can never do anything right. Not just with boys, but especially with boys. People ask me why I stay friends with her, but honestly she's a walking cautionary tale for me. She's who I could become if I'm not careful about who I am.

Every weekend she messages me about the latest injustices of the latest boy. Every weekend I tell her to dump his ass and get herself some therapy.

I have a friend who can never do anything right. Not just with boys, but especially with boys. People ask me why I stay friends with her, but I don't know the subtle art of distillation. My centrifuge is broken and the sieves all have holes in them. She's who I could become if I'm not careful about who I am.

Every minute of every day she messages me about the latest injustices of the latest boy. And every time I tell her to dump his ass and get herself some (more) therapy.

She got the therapy, but it wasn't enough. She dumped all the boys, but it wasn't enough. She yearned for the world till it felt as though her heart would break in an unending, deafening crack.

It was never enough, for every night she'd message me. She'd tell me how she's sad, how he's not that bad. How much he's changed since the day they met. How she wants so much more but she can wait. How he loves her, loves her, would never fail her.

She tells me why he is the way he is because she just wants me to be able to understand. She tells me he would never lie to her.

And some days, I nod and listen, and tell her I understand. Some days, I tell her a few harsh truths. Other days, I indulge her in hopeful lies. And sometimes, on rare occasions, I remind her of what really did happen. I remind her, because she cannot remember. Because she is ill, and her memory has holes in it, and she and I both know she's destined to die in a painful way not long from now.

Some days I walk her through the whole story. I play storyteller so she may have the pleasure of remembering those first few years of sweetness. Lying in bed next to her in the dark, I recount every moment - the messages, the dinners, the ice cream, the sex. And if I am lucky, she falls asleep before I have to get around to talking about the day he died.

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