If this begins to sound like the tell-all, show-all, excessively rehashed, borderline-obsessive screenplay of some ridiculously underfunded film written by a high school student in desperate need of fifty or so words to turn in to an overworked teacher—a story about a girl with too-big of an imagination and a friendship that knows no sensible boundaries—please let me know. But honestly, I feel like you’d probably be okay with this, seeing as you still talk to me.
It’s been a good eight years. I know for a lot of that time we weren’t truly in contact with each other, but I’m glad we have the friendship we have now. This feels kind of crazy to me. It really does. Eight years have passed us by and I’m not a twelve-year-old little girl anymore, at least not on the outside. Alright, so what if I do look like I’m twelve on the outside, I certainly feel like I’m twelve on the inside too.
I haven’t changed much. I’m still insecure about the same things, still feel the same way about a lot of things like onions and math. Oh, God, my mental math is still awful. In fact, I think it’s only gotten worst. I’m still anxious when I speak in front of a group, my voice shakes, my fingers tremble. My social anxiety seizes hold of my tongue, vocal cords, and lungs. My mind is a dandelion seed and the stares of my peers is the only gust of wind I need to become dislodged and sail away. Without a mind I become a mechanical machine, hopelessly pushing words on a conveyor belt to be voiced into existence, an action that has been rehearsed tirelessly over and over again. If not expected to speak I become mute, a paperweight sitting on a sheet of paper, insignificant and invisible.
It is with you I discovered a confidant. It was you I trusted my insecurities with, my crushes, my moments of stunning social awkwardness. Without you I would have been an island, isolated by miles and miles of ocean, my poisonous insecurity and traitorous lack of confidence holding me a prisoner of my own flaws. With you as a source of comfort, I dared to speak to unfamiliar faces and build bridges. I managed to gain a sense of satisfaction in everyday tasks and I held onto hope during depressing times. I held out for the blue of sunlit skies after the cold gray of stormy seas. So, sail on, Chloe. And I hope you find what you’re looking for. Whatever it is that you want out of life, I hope you reach. I hope you get there, wherever it is you want to be.
I am and always will be the girl you met on the sandy path strewn with goose feces at Centerville Junior High. We might not be in seventh grade anymore and I know, with time, we won’t always be this close, but I hope that one day, when we meet again you’ll remember me and I’ll remember you as we were, as we are, friends like we once were in seventh grade.