breaking up is hard to do.

You used to share everything. There wasn’t a crevice of her life you weren’t privy to, and the same went for yours. She cheered at your graduation, you at her probate. Her tears soaked your graphic tshirt when the two of you first realized that sometimes love just wasn’t enough. Your crazy thoughts filled her room while you ranted about bucking the system and living life off the grid as a renegade writer, only emerging from the abyss to do speeches on feminism and sexuality. She thought you’d better serve as a teacher, but gave a listening ear to your extravagant plans anyway.

Birthdays were national holidays and you made sure that no one forgot that it meant full participation. You entertaining her other friends that you didn’t actually care for. Her entertaining the alternative music you  love, that she thought sounded like a bunch of tapping on a keyboard.

One day it changed. The once welcomed sarcasm became annoying. The immaturity that drove statements like, “I saw your friend today!” in reference to a person who has never been and will never be a friend, now repulsive. One day your jokes stopped funny and the echos of co-dependency became suffocating. One day we had to let it go. And just pretended like it didn’t exist.

We don’t mourn the end of friendships the way we do intimate relationships. There is no expected period of sadness. No circle of sisters sending “thinking of you” texts and reminding you of how beautiful you are despite what it is you may be feeling. Like outdated Instagram pictures that no longer fit the aesthetic; we remove all traces of these memories and become complete strangers.

In the absence of a judge or jury we approach the dissolution of friendships with complete finality. There is no room for error or growth. We grew into big girls who still managed to treat our girls and the emotions they invoke, like little girls.


For the same reasons why we will accept the phone calls of a man who has proven to be nothing but detrimental. The same reasons why deadbeat mothers are approached with the fervor generally reserved for rapists and pedophiles. We as women are inherently more harsh on each other than we will ever be on men. I expect you to know better, thus expecting you to do better.

But what if you can’t do better? What if you did the best you could for exactly who you are and deserved to be loved anyway? What if there is a part of you that I was not made aware of, silently impacting your every move? What if you were just navigating life like the rest of us and prone to do human things like make mistakes? What if we didn’t have to end in confusion + a need to go out swinging, even if we were both loud and wrong?

Text your girl. I’m sure she misses you too.

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