You look at that old album, one that has not been opened in years, one which contents you thought have gotten out of your grasp; out of your memory. In reality, they’re still there, just waiting to be opened up again.
You see photos of that girl—that one girl you’ve been friends with for years. You remembered how you fought over stickers and papers; how you would braid each other’s hair; how you would stay at each other’s homes just talking for hours while dissecting what’s on television; how you would talk about those silly boys who made you smile, and made you confused, at the same time.
You smile as you leaf through the pages, the remnants of your old life unfolding right before your eyes. You remember that girl, and remembered how you promised to stick for each other through anything; to be the kind of friends whose kids would also be friends; to just be with each other forever.
And then you remembered that little girl is not in your life anymore—has not been for years.
You remembered the accusations, the ugly words said. It didn’t matter whether it came from you, or from her—what only matters is that they’ve been said.
You don’t remember the exact time you wished you would not be around her anymore; how the thought of her coming over started to irritate you; how you stopped telling her everything; how the jokes became too much, too cruel; how you no longer got each other’s back; how you no longer fit in each others’ lives.
You’ve both lived different lives since then, and you can’t help but wonder: will these new versions of yourselves still like each other? Or is that all your friendship is going to be?
You wonder, and then you stop.
Because then, you realize that this life is what your life is supposed to be; that this life, without her, is better than with her in it.
And it’s okay.