It was a particularly quiet night as I climbed up the steps to our third-floor apartment. The echo of each footstep resounded through the dimly lit stairwell, reminding me of her footsteps that once followed closely behind. Usually after a long day of work, I liked to decompress in bed with my cats, but this night felt unusually still. I wasn’t in as much of a hurry to get home and upon pushing my front door open I was immediately greeted with a cold zephyr that covered my arms with goosebumps. I stood outside the door for a few minutes gazing around the dark and eerie apartment. My car keys jingled softly as the leather band of my keychain tapped the edge of the bolt. I noticed the rainbow string lights that used to bathe the living room in a colorful hue were now burned out and loosely hung around the window frame. The only light that filtered its way through was courtesy of the broken lamppost that stood outside our building. Each flicker casts a yellow, melancholic glow; and in those fleeting moments of light, I would watch our misty silhouettes twirling to the tunes of Frank Ocean while sipping from our thrifted wine glasses. Inhaling deeply, the smell of cheap prosecco filled my nostrils, mingling with the echoes of our laughter. I soon realized that each flicker of light reignited a memory, only to cruelly snatch it away in that darkness that followed. Leaving me to continue grieving on our worn and disheveled couch.
Even when I constantly remind myself of the horrible things that happened, I can’t help but still reminisce our midnight drives along the beach and racing each other up the stairs after having too much to drink. Sometimes I think of the things I could’ve done better; because I know I wasn’t perfect either. I recognize my emotional detachment that conveyed a sense of indifference, particularly when faced with her sensitivity. I had the worst anxiety and my anger manifested as a storm within me. Sometimes she would try to sympathize with my outbursts despite it hurting her; making the struggle to contain my turbulent emotions more frustrating. I was glass pretending to be made of metal. Yet, I can’t say she was ever made of gold. She too, was fragile in her own way. Responding with a quiet intensity that masked deep-seated resentment. Her method of coping was rather tamed yet, narcissistic. Her actions often veered into passive aggression, creating an atmosphere of subtle hostility. The way she criticized my appearance, the way I chewed, and the subtle jabs in social settings. Everything I did was always wrong and would inevitably lead to her shutting me out for weeks. Soon, the fear of making mistakes loomed over me, forcing me to meticulously analyze every word and every action. And of course, the constant state of apprehension started suffocating my sense of freedom; then all of a sudden having a best friend felt more exhausting than comforting. I started questioning if my anger was trying to tell me something; because deep down, I knew our friendship had reached a natural conclusion. Yet the chord that tied us together still hadn’t been cut.
Sometimes I wonder about the life she lived in the bedroom adjacent to mine. Her absence still doesn't feel real and I still anticipate a time when avoidance would become futile. But as seasons pass like sunset, the more the memories of our movie nights and Friday debriefs pour down my cheeks because slowly I’m starting to forget the sound of her voice. So no, she was not made of gold, not silver or bronze. She was also glass, who pretended to be made of steel.