WAS

Evie Dixon

Creative Writer
Google Docs
She was so pretty. We sat together as we ate lunch and I went to her house every Tuesday after school. The signs were almost non-existent, or maybe I didn’t look for them hard enough. Or at all. I knew she struggled with things, we all did. We talked about it with each other. And I thought she was happy where she was. She left me. Slowly but surely she stopped talking to me. That was last year. Now, I need to check her Instagram story to see if she is actually still kicking or if she happened to lay in a not-so-comfy coffin, six-feet under. She seems so happy now. Almost like the photographs of us had my face scratched out. I get teary eyed looking at the photos of her and I, a reminder of what I have lost. One of my favourite people who I no longer exist to. At the time she left it was more than I could manage. I cried a lot. She drank a lot. She threw herself away in beers while I was chained to my bed all summer. I never hated myself more, and I was never so distraught over someone who hadn’t died. I cry again every now and then. I miss her. I hope she misses me. 
She needs someone. Someone to help her out of this… situation. That person won't be me. Never again am I going to put myself out there for someone who never cared, and may never will. Despite that,cv  I still love her. She was my best friend. Was.   
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