kagablog

I liked her because she always wanted to be the centre of attention. It was a compulsion, she had to be.

She had a laugh that could cut through a crowd and make everyone look. She knew about every underground band and scene and could talk to anyone about anything.

I was the adoring sidekick, a role I’d played before with other female friends, but it was different with her. I didn’t resent her at all; I really thought she was more interesting and more fun than me, and besides, I liked who I was around her.

Instead of being an intense writer/artist type with too much on my mind who had panic attacks and made notoriously bad choices with men, I was fun. I went to parties and clubs and concerts. I ate out in restaurants and laughed and talked shit. I had someone I could talk to about anything and I knew she’d never judge me. She always topped me anyway. Whatever terrible stories I had, she’d done or seen worse, so I always felt better.

She gave of her time and her emotions more than anyone I’d known. She was the first friend I’d had who matched my emotional energy, hug for hug and birthday card for birthday card.

We’d talk for hours on the phone then later not recall what we’d talked about.

We’d sit around in my dingy apartment, watching tv and taking goofy pictures of ourselves on the ratty Ikea couch. Every day, no matter how mundane, felt like a party.

No matter what was happening in my life at the time, I’d tell her. I’d tell her everything.

I always had a really hard time trusting people, making new friends, believing that they’d actually be there, not fuck you over, that they really cared like they said they did, but she cut through any apprehension I had with warmth.

That was the truth about her; she wasn’t cool, she was warm.

She was never cool enough for the indie snobs because there was nothing intimidating about her.

She was a marshmallow with corkscrew curls and a huge smile with a tiny gap between her teeth.

We decided, after only a few months of knowing each other that we were best friends, that we had a connection that neither of us had felt with anyone else.

I helped her with her music company, and we made plans for world domination. I started becoming more ambitious, started helping her think of strategies to expand, actually make money, her life became my life too.

Then my grandfather died and I started to lose it a little, spending days in bed bawling, having nightmares, feeling fucked up all the time. I decided to travel, starting with staying in an apartment he’d owned in another country.

I was sad to say goodbye to her, but I called her a few times, racked up huge long distance bills, complaining about how much I missed her, how I hadn’t made any new friends as great as her.

I fell in love with the man who would eventually become my husband. I felt happier than I had in years, more confident. I felt like the me I might have been before I met her.

I couldn’t wait to go back home after another year of living away to introduce him to her.

She was happy to see me, I could feel it, we were both happy, but it was different.

She wasn’t used to me having a life that didn’t include her. She wasn’t used to me being happy without her.

Every time I tried to tell her about how happy I was she’d tell me about her new boyfriend of a month.

She’d bring him to every get together, whether he was invited or not, and he’d make derisive comments about the music industry, or pop culture, or whatever else we’d once taken joy in.

She started changing all her interests, from her taste in music, to a sudden interest in camping and learning to drive a stick shift.

Through it all, she’d tell me how happy she was, and I’d tell her I was happy for her. I didn’t get it, but I couldn’t judge. I didn’t want anything to change. I didn’t want to lose her.

She stopped calling me as often, and even though we lived in the same city, we hardly saw each other.

She stopped seeming happy for me too. When I showed her a picture of my engagement ring, he face was visibly full of envy. When I showed her the ring on my finger a week later, she said it was nice, then proceeded to tell me more about her amazing boyfriend. She bought me a 10 dollar lunch as an engagement present. I didn’t care about a present, I was just hurt that she didn’t care about me.

When she offered to lend me a wedding magazine that she’d bought herself ( because of course, a year from then, they’d be getting married too, she could feel it) I snapped. I told her I was sick of everything being all about her. I told her how hurt I was. I thought for once it was going to be my turn. I thought for once, in my and her world, things might be about me.

She called me later, to tell me she’d spoken to her boyfriend, and I’d been wrong and out of line.

She didn’t come to our engagement party, even though I invited her, and we never spoke again.

Her mother, who’d never liked me, and been verbal about it must have been thrilled.

Her boyfriend probably was too.

I think about her all the time and wish things were different.

She’s getting married to that guy this year, I read about it on the internet.

When I think about how close we were, I can’t believe we’re doing anything as monumental as this without each other.

Sometimes I miss her so much, but I know there’s nothing I can do.

I just wish it didn’t have to be like this, so final and absolute.

I sent her an email once, telling her that I missed her, asking her how she was, but she never responded.

It is what it is, I guess.

I wish her all the happiness that it’s possible to feel.

I wish she’d change her mind too, but she probably won’t.

Maybe it’s better this way. If not for her, then for me.

I wish things were different.