Regretfully, Yours Truly

I know that a lot of people like to talk about romantic love—boyfriends, girlfriends, sex and all that blah blah blah. But I want to talk about bridesmaid love. The kind of love you see in your camera roll after hikes or parties with your friends. I want to talk about the words safety and warmth. About the flower girl. Part of me thought our older selves would sit drinking coffee, laughing about our college years, listening to the playlists that became the soundtracks of our semesters. But now, parts of me are learning how to heal from heartbreak—the kind no one ever teaches you how to grieve. This post is the bittersweet part of my heart, and if you peeked inside, you’d find a garden. 

We’ll call her Lily, which isn’t her real name, but if she ever reads this, she’ll know it’s about her. I met Lily in college, and while it took some warming up, eventually we became attached at the hip. I had never really had a friendship like hers before. It felt like what I had been craving from other people all my life. I could tell her anything and everything, and trust me, I really did. We listened to the same music, laughed at the same things, shared the same views. I admired her. She was smart and resilient and knew exactly what she wanted. And even when it seemed like she didn’t know what she was doing, she was never really afraid of that feeling. She always figured it out and always moved with intention. That’s something I noticed instantly about her—she was calculating. Always one step ahead and made sure her back was always covered. But even in her strategic nature, she still felt extremely authentic. Easygoing and charismatic. She was just another teenage girl, after all. 

Lily broke my heart. Not in the romantic sense that I think a lot of people are used to describing, but in this weird companion way I had never felt before. I had lost best friends before, yeah, but nothing ever hurt as deeply as this did. I still cry about it sometimes, because I don’t think I ever mourned the relationship. I felt like if I confronted those feelings, I’d be forced to realize that she took up such a big space in my heart. That space is a hole now, pierced by her distance.

Junior year rolled around, and on our first day back, we jumped at the chance to see each other again; to eat together and talk about the summer. We gossiped about our new roommates and all the new possibilities the semester might hold. In an attempt to bridge the awkward gaps between our new roomies, we set up a hang out. A sort of “you bring yours, I’ll bring mine” kind of thing. At the end of the first week, we all gathered into my small dorm to drink. Maybe it was my lack of social skills and awareness at the time, but I thought I was making new friends. We laughed, we talked, we made future plans, then we went to bed. It was fun, it was normal, it was college. 

Immediately after, I noticed this abrupt and growing disconnect between Lily and I. She was too busy to hang out with me, or talk for that matter. Which was fine because school was always our priority. She would cancel our plans and I figured it was because she was busy. But then I’d see her posts—busy, yes, but not with scholastic endeavors. With my new roommate and hers and their new friends I didn’t even really know existed. She never told me when she was coming over, even though I lived in the same space as her new friend and definitely could tell when I wasn’t invited. I figured maybe something happened, something I wasn’t supposed to know. I was afraid her new friends didn’t like me, or I made them uncomfortable and said the wrong thing. But they were kind to me, sweet even. We talked, shared stories, and helped each other with homework. That’s when I started to become increasingly uncomfortable with the idea that it wasn’t the new people that didn’t like me, it was my best friend that didn’t want me around. I felt iced out, and suddenly I was alone again. 

See, Lily and I always were just around each other, and truly I don’t think we made very big efforts to make more friends. We wouldn’t even leave to get food without each other, both of us being the other’s protection from guys or situations we were avoiding. We studied in the library together, we went to school events together, we shopped together. We were everywhere…together. So this new behavior from her felt really weird. I could understand someone wanting space, especially if our relationship felt stifling, but I didn’t know if that’s what was truly happening. I had never really been alone, I always had her. Lily had me too: she had my quiet mouth for her rants, she had my hugs when her and her boyfriend fought, she had my advice when she spoke about her family, she had my home on Thanksgiving. She had me too. And I stress that because I was, at one point, worried that the love I had was one-sided. But it wasn’t. Truly, I think she made efforts to convey that. Which is why she felt safe, she loved me too. Why would she ever purposefully hurt me? 

Maybe I was too awkward to fit in with her new friends. I didn’t like drinking very much and was still too afraid of the frat parties. Regardless of what it was, I was upset. Partly because she was being sneaky and telling half-truths, and partly because I didn’t know why she didn’t want me around anymore. So instead of communicating that, I just removed her from everything. I blocked her and never looked her way again. In my head, I didn’t think she deserved an explanation. If she didn’t want me around anymore, she no longer had to lie about it, I’d take care of it myself. And I know that this is only half of the story. Maybe in her story, I wasn’t trying hard enough, or I was mean in ways I didn’t intend to be. In her story, I wasn’t intentionally left behind, she just didn’t think their hangouts were my scene. I used to worry that I hurt her feelings, but I justified it by saying that she hurt mine first. I told myself she didn’t care in the first place. She was doing it intentionally, so what did it matter if I communicated my feelings or not? She obviously never wanted to communicate openly anyways.  

The truth is, Lily was a safe place for me. After my sexual assault, she became this fixed person in my life. Even when the entire campus felt unsafe, or even my own bed, she made me feel calm again. I don’t think she knew that’s how I felt about her. I kept those feelings to myself, more or less because I was worried about scaring her away. Reflecting on those feelings now makes me sick, because I’ve come to realize we had this weird, codependent friendship that, at the time, didn’t feel weird. It felt okay, because how can platonic love ever turn sour or toxic? I guess I was too young or inexperienced in relationships to really understand how bad it could get. 

Lily was one of the first people in my adult life I ever felt true love for. All I wanted was the best for her and I was excited at the idea of her sticking around. You always hear about those lifelong friendships you make in college, but maybe that was expecting too much of someone. Now, I’m working hard on forgiving her—because love like that doesn’t just disappear. I think about reconnecting with her sometimes, reaching out and saying hi. But I’m also working on learning to let go. Learning that there are people who come into our lives to teach us more about ourselves, leaving us with lessons as deep as their love once was. I’m learning what healthy attachment means.  In another universe, Lily and I are still best friends, sharing dating horror stories and familial trauma. But in this one, I’m tending to my own garden now. I’m growing safety, warmth, and love for myself. In this one, I’m learning how to let go of the love that doesn’t love me back. 

Thank you. 

P.S. On the off chance Lily is reading this: thank you. You were a huge part of my life, and I’ll always carry that love with me. I’m sorry for how things ended, but I hope you’ve found the happiness and love you deserve.