I met the girl who uses your locker now. I forgot it was yours for just a split second, until I saw the dot in the top left hand corner of the door, where you marked it with sharpie to remember that it was yours after you kept walking up and down that hallway looking for the locker you forgot about. It happens, forgetfulness. She looked kinder than you ever were.
She said, “Excuse me, can you help me open my locker?” in a scared voice that was like mine before I met you. Afraid to ask for help, afraid of being a burden, a bother to a complete stranger. But I helped her. I helped her open your locker and caught a peek inside. It was not like the inside of yours anymore. There were no post it notes that I wrote you with love quotes and jokes and just general messages to help you get through the day. Do you have them, somewhere? Or did the school remove them, forcefully, without caring that I took too much time to find the perfect saying to make your days a little brighter, a little better?
Your locker is neat now, with textbooks stacked in color order that will see the light of day and leave that blue coffin instead of yours being pushed to the back everyday, refusing to do well in class not because you weren’t smart, but because you didn’t want to try. You didn’t want to try with me, with us either, did you? You were just full of not trying. Not trying to make me even half as happy as I know I made you, not trying to help me when I needed someone, anyone, not trying to like my family, my friends, my interests, my passions. I don’t care that you didn’t care, I care that you didn’t even try to care.
And you know what? Maybe a small part of me is happy you’re not here anymore. Maybe I’m happy that there’s no chance of seeing your face anymore in these haunted hallways. Maybe I’m happy that we grew apart after you hurt me, killed me on the inside. Maybe I’m glad I don’t spend weekends at your house anymore, when you’d get mad if I didn’t want to stay up all night with you or get mad if I needed a light to sleep or get upset with me when your ex would call you while you never ignored him, never got over him, let his aggression transfer over to you. Maybe I’m glad that you don’t call me or text me repeatedly anymore, monitor my social media posts to see when I’m online and not responding to you.
Actually, I am glad. I am so glad that you hurt me and I left. I left your toxicity, your foulness, your cruelty and your utter lack of decency and respect for me. I left the person who knew that I was more afraid of the dark than of any other event in my life yet would purposely turn off lights to scare me. I left the person who spouted my secrets from those cursed lips, the secrets that you promised to keep yet turned around and told five people in one day. The person that forbid me from seeing and talking to my friends. The one who spoke ill of my family and who would bully me mercilessly because I liked shows and movies and books that you didn’t.
And maybe it’s my fault because we’re always warned what an abusive relationship looks like but no one expects it from their friend. Maybe I was in denial and told myself that I’m not in an abusive friendship because nobody ever talks about when your abuser is a) your friend and b) a female. Maybe I’m to blame because every single warning sign was there in big red letters spelled out in the sky for all to see but I ignored them thinking, “that could never happen to me.” But it did. And I was lucky. Because I left. I left you and I left any chance of an “us” because I swear to the gods that you are the most poisonous person to enter my life. And I’m glad beyond belief that somebody else uses your locker now.