For the Friendless

The word 'friend' is hard to say. Your mouth usually forms 'aquaintance' or 'person', never friend. At some point, you think you've had friends. But you doubt it.

Friends trust one another.

You remember being fourteen, your last year of innocence, and having a few friends. Your closest one was Gia, the last person you'll ever call a best friend. You like her, and you tell her everything. She likes you, and she tells you nothing.

You'll never forget the time that one of your mutual friends was going through a rough patch. You ask Gia, and she gives a faint smile. She says that she can't talk to you.

Your next friend was Reyna, who invited you to her quinceañera. She left you alone the whole time to talk to other people, her better friends.

You're never the 'better' friend, or the confidante. You're the last resort, the final player to be drafted to a team.

With new friendships, you question everything. You don't think they want to know about you, or be around you. You may come off as cold, or uninteresting. To say your favorite color feels like a death sentence, because you can be judged for anything. You make less and less friends, more and more 'aquaintances' or 'people'.

You wonder if you'll ever be able to let yourself fall, to ever love someone completely and unapologetically like friends do, and let yourself be loved in return.

You can't say. Now, it's ingrained in you like an instinct--to always catch yourself before you fall.