Edema Rue

Dialogue that aches, part 1:

”They used to be best friends.”

There’s so much going on behind a line like that. They. People saw the pair, whoever they were, and recognized them as best friends. Never either without the other. From the outside, their relationship was obvious.

But there’s an inside too, which is where the real depth and hurt comes from. Not friends. Not classmates or coworkers or acquaintances. Best friends. They knew what music the other liked, knew how this person who was so precious to them picked the ham off their pizza and always typed their birthday in one day early, quietly saying that their thumb had slipped when asked why. They knew each other’s license plate numbers and class schedules, where the other worked and what time they got home. They walked into each other’s houses without knocking and knew which drawer had the silverware, which had plates, where the trash can was and which bathroom would always be clean. Best friends, startling and sharp in their magical ordinariness.

But then, there’s more to it than even that. Because best friends know each other longer and more thoroughly than even family. They can cry in one another’s laps, walk for an hour in the freezing rain, and talk about anything while the hours disappear into dust. They’ve got other friends, some days they don’t even see one another, but when their phone rings with that number, that name, nothing in the world will keep them from picking up. There’s nothing that can’t be laughed about and nothing too shameful to cry for. They can argue, they can make up. Best friends, startling and sharp and filled with dangerous secrets they wouldn’t dream of sharing.

They used to be best friends.

They are not best friends anymore.

But I still know how your car smells. I still remember when your brother was born, when your mom got divorced and then your dad died. I was at the wedding when your mom fell in love again. I remember when you were so sick you couldn’t walk and none of the doctors knew why. I remember watching you have a seizure and praying because I didn’t know what else to do. I remember when you moved five states away, and I remember your first kiss, the call we had that night. I was sitting on the freezer in my garage, almost numb from the cold but unwilling to let the moment end.

I still know the route to your old house by heart.

They used to be best friends.

I have your old birthday cards, ascending through the years.

They used to be best friends…

I’ve had best friends since you left, and I have best friends now, and I know their families, and I walk into their houses without knocking and drive their cars and let them cry into my lap.

No best friends are forever.

But that moment, that sight, that break where someone can look from the outside and see two halves that will never meet again and say, “they used to be best friends”, that is a moment worth treasuring. That is a moment that demands to be recounted.

We used to be best friends.