remember that birthday party at your aunt’s house?

When you ask me, I don’t tell you the truth.

It’s midnight in middle school, your pillow tucked beneath my chin, and when your face turns towards mine they do too, hungry eyes gleaming in anticipation.

I lie.

Blond hair. Ten million freckles.

Everyone oohs, giggling behind the collars of their pajamas. (Three days later, he’ll ask me to be his girlfriend; he dumps me after less than a week.)

His eyes were almost as blue as yours.

When I think of you, I think of primary colors; the house we built in the playground, precursor to the one we’ll have in the countryside when we’re rich and grown; Barbie movies, American Girl dolls and Avril Lavigne on your pink iPod; dance skits and birthday parties and

you.

(is it too late to say sorry for writing this?)

Here’s the thing: when people ask me how I know–

(when you ask)

–I’ll think of her, hair bright as acorns in the sun; the one after, soft and hard-edged; the one who pierced my ears in the bathroom two hours before prom, beautiful and dangerous.

But those are the ones that come after, after I learn to soften without obliterating completely, to switch from Elizabeths to Elijahs, Ashleys to Aarons. That wasn’t something I’d mastered yet when I sat on your floor, wrapped in borrowed blankets and waiting stares, and offered you him instead.

And I still won’t tell you – when I sit on your couch and drink cheap wine, listen to you bitch about dating, watch you swipe on eyeliner sharp as knives, take photos of you by murals downtown, and judge your Tinder dates over supermarket sushi.

The truth is, you’re my best friend.

And if there was ever any other –

Some things are better left unspoken.