In the large house, on the crooked bookshelf, next to the stack of old high school yearbooks, in the picture frame there was a photograph. You could look, as closely as you could for as long could, and this is what you’d see:
Two girls, the blonde and the brunette, suntanned and embracing each other on a boardwalk many summers ago. You’d see their smiles, carefree and joyful. You could see their perfect friendship, as clear as the glass that protected it.
But that is all you would see.
The photograph didn’t show the blonde looking into the mirror each night and telling herself she was ugly. It didn’t show the brunette up each night as well, hiding from her so called “home”.
The photograph didn’t show the blonde crying on the brunette’s shoulder, makeup running down her cheeks with her tears. And the brunette comforting her, as if her problems weren’t as important.
The photograph didn’t show the blonde slowly shutting out the world, retreating into a self-made darkness. It didn’t show the brunette trying to fit into the world as she sat out alone in the cold, dark, nights.
The photograph couldn’t tell you how that two weeks from that weekend on the boardwalk, the two friends would fight. It didn’t show their seemingly perfect friendship cracking and crumbling. It didn’t show both of their regret, all of their tears.
The photograph didn’t show the blond returning to the world. Or the brunette falling out of it.
So I guess the “perfect” picture in the Blonde girl’s large house, on the crooked bookshelf, next to the stack of old high school yearbooks, in the frame didn’t show you much at all. The frame was practically empty.