You plunged your fingers into my heart and squeezed viciously, waiting to see if you could injure me. I didn’t let on, though you should have known. You should have known all the times I said it was OK, that it was casual, we could share. We talked about the alternating weekends and laughed heartily. I told you I might love him.

You should have known all the times I said it wasn’t OK anymore, that I couldn’t handle my feelings, I had to stop, get out. I told you you could have him while I cried. When he was away, I told you I was depressed. It was because I was still in love with my best friend. You asked “really?” and made out with him on his first night back. I’ll never forget.

You should have known when I yelled angrily at my two friends who forced me to lay on my bed in the dark, next to them while they touched and swallowed each others’ tongues. “Threesome!” you cried and the smacking of lips hit me so hard I was dizzy. The resentment and injustice I had bottled up inside finally erupted and you indignantly asked me “Why?,” making me explain in words how fucked up everything was. Only then did you stop momentarily, no apologies.

I know you felt entitled because you kissed him first and later decided you were in love with him too. I get it and I don’t hate you. But I’ll never forget the brilliant, beautiful girl I knew, whose tortured heart couldn’t handle not possessing what it bitterly desired, it’s appeal in the sole fact that it was unattainable. I’ll never forget the person whose face started disgusting me to the point that I could no longer look her in the eyes. I’ll never forget the friend you never were.