Bridge the Gap

It started in the summer. We were nine, nothing more important than our sunburnt skin and the grass, soft and slippery, beneath our feet. Her house stood tall behind us, but the heat was worth it, for the world outside was a kingdom and we were in charge. In reality, that kingdom stretched only as far as the outskirts of the yard; but we were free, and we could pretend whatever we wanted. We were knights or princesses, pirates or explorers, sometimes all at once. We had smiles in our eyes and a song on our lips.

I was a guest in her house, but it felt like home. Her hand in mine as we ran up the stairs, her siblings on our backs as we raced through the living room. We made a tent in her sheets that night, a space carved out just for us. We were only nine, but already thinking about the future. What would our lives look like? Where would we live, who would we live with? Those answers changed a great many times throughout our friendship, but one thing was always certain: wherever we were, we would be together.

“We were only nine, but already thinking about the future…wherever we were, we would be together.”

Fall came, and we started elementary school. Fourth grade. We weren’t in the same class. While I did math in one room, she practiced writing across the hall. The distance was like a canyon between us, our hearts tied together by an invisible string. But we were okay. Everything was going to turn out fine. I still saw her at lunch, at recess, and she was the same person that I had played pretend with that summer. We could still make each other laugh, giggles rising above the other noises in the lunchroom, tears salty on our tongues. They were good tears, the kind that only your best friend could pull from your eyes, a joke so unfunny it became the best thing you heard all day.

There were people at our table. That table was the bridge across the canyon, and it could only hold so much weight. I heard her voice through the din, talking to the other girls. I knew their names of course, our school was small, but they had never talked to me, never shown interest. What else could I do but sit down? I tucked my hands under my legs, felt the smooth wood of the table as my fingers and palms began to fall asleep. Not a single person talked to me.

Winter came in like a knife; quick and unexpected. It was early for snow, only October. It was also the first Halloween I had spent without her, only my brother for company. November arrived swiftly as well, and so did my tenth birthday. Self-doubt was a worm in my mind. The girls had stayed at our table, though I no longer felt it was a part of me. I was separate, something for them to observe and wonder about. Why did I care about school so much? Why did I read so many books? I was simultaneously too loud and too quiet, always picking the wrong tone at the wrong time. I was too bossy, yet also too meek. Why couldn’t I make up my mind?

I barely talked to my best friend anymore. The canyon had doubled, even tripled, in width and the bridge had snapped a long time ago. Somehow, I was the only one that had fallen. That string between our hearts? It was so frayed it hardly existed. I was tired. And the worst part was, she had done nothing. No insults, no angry words, not even an acknowledgement of the distance. It was like she had simply drifted into the dark.

Spring came, and I got up. It was completely unplanned. For months, I had been spending each lunch period in silence. Surrounded by people, but still silent. My best friend talked to her new friends like normal, like they had been doing every day for months. And I was done. So I got up. I was such a nonpresence that I cannot say for certain whether or not they even noticed me leave.

I picked a table that I had wanted to join for months. Every day, I watched the group laugh from across the room. When I sat down, there were no questions. We were friends, just like that. I was suddenly a part of that laughter, that joy that I had been so jealous of. We had the same interests and the same sense of humor. I felt seen.

Summer arrived again, and I was a different person. I had new friends, new interests, a better sense of myself. I was no longer best friends with the same girl, and it didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. We didn’t talk every day, but we were friendly. We smiled and waved and were happy for each other from a distance. She had found her people, and I wasn’t one of them.

And that was okay.