The Things We'll Never Say

A Story by Sophie

Just some sad thoughts on an old friend.

I think it all started the night we got drunk in the rain, looking for the cemetery. It was dark and we were walking down an old dirt road in the middle of a small town in the mountains. We never found the cemetery, but we did find a lot of cows and some drowning worms. I remember us both falling down in a puddle, and we just lay there and laughed for the longest time. It felt so wonderful being there with her in that moment, with the stars and the moon and the rain. We had many more such moments in the months afterwords, and they were the best times of my life. I would give anything to be back there with her in the rain.
But now I’m here and she’s still there, and she’s getting into trouble without me and she writes me letters about suicide and the end of the world. We’re both going crazy without each other and neither of us will ever admit it, because neither of us is willing to admit that we enjoy the company of another human being so much. It’s such a vile concept to us both; it would be the worst kind of hypocrisy.
I hate everyone now, because no one is as good as her. The rain is no longer beautiful; just wet. But we both pretend like everything is the same, and the world has always been this horrible and the people have always been so dull, and I pretend that I don’t lay on my bed and cry when I read her letters.
Maybe one day she’ll really kill herself like she talks about doing, and maybe after her funeral I’ll kneel down by her gravestone and tell her the truth. I’ll pretend that I see her ghost when it’s raining, and I’ll drink too much wine and keep hating everyone, because if they were as good as her they wouldn’t still be alive.
I guess if we knew how to love we could be like everyone else, with their “happy” relationships and simple lives, but it wouldn’t be right. Our stories were always written as tragedies.