losing a friend

i don't know you anymore

“People born in June have fewer friends”

That’s what my tutor said today mid-conversation, casually dropping a celestial fact. Just one of those astrology-based observations that sound more like accusations prophesied by the stars. There were three of us in the room. Two with June birthdays: hers was yesterday and mine a few days earlier. The third girl was born in December, and you’d have to be blind not to clock the Sagittarius energy. Loud, outspoken, confident. The tutor clearly adored her. No surprise, since her daughter was born under the same sign.

My dad once told me, “You are only the average of all your friends”. And this idea that I was made of tiny bits and pieces of all the people I love woven together was comforting. The offhand comment in class brought it back. Suddenly, I wasn’t so sure if that’s still true. I realised I couldn’t see any traces of my friendships in me. Not in the way I speak, think, or carry myself. All the memories, their laughter, the inside jokes. I realised just how far away it all seemed now.

If I can’t recognise any parts of them in me does that mean I’ve lost them? Or myself? Maybe now, I’m the average of all the parts of myself they never saw. The parts I hid, trying to make myself easy. No one wants a needy girl. She’s too much.

---

the best friend.

If she was reading this, she’d definitely know it’s about her. Good thing she’s not on Substack. Also, why would she be?

Substack is the kind of place where people bleed through every word. They leave the deepest, most misunderstood pieces of themselves on this app for people to read and maybe, if they’re lucky, connect with.

She would never. She’s above it all, of course. With her half-truths, empty promises, and a face pretty enough to get away with just about anything. The starter pack for the main character of any 2000s teen show: the grades, the friends, and constant drama. But once you get too close, she’s someone who’d plan your birthday with you. For weeks. And then? Ghost you because it didn’t ‘fit her schedule’.

I am able to write about it only now, after years of observing and putting up with the cycle. The cycle of betrayal, confusion, hurt, and self-doubt. And while I was losing my mind, to her it was always about convenience.

When we met, we were the most cheerful two girls who always stood by each other. Movie nights, skipping class, discussing show plots like they were real-life politics. We were the known duo. You know the kind, finishing each other’s sentences, “I’ll go if you go”, calling each hangout a core memory.

It’s dumb, I know but I still think about the pencil case.

“Oh, come on. Stop holding grudges.”

But no. You don’t get it.

I was over at her place, just hanging out. I opened one of her drawers. Right at the top was a pencil case. My pencil case. The one I lost weeks ago, and the same one she kept bringing up in conversation. Going on and on about how 'it had a vibe’ and losing it feels like the end of an era. It now had different art supplies and the keychain broke off. It’d clearly been used. When I asked her about how it got there, she acted just as surprised as me. Didn’t even flinch. No argument, no explanation. Just let me take it back, like it was nothing.

This is where I’d say my trust issues started.
Theft? And then lying to cover it up?

I felt stupid. Pathetic. Something as small as a pencil case was enough to bring me to spiral. This person who I’d trusted so deeply, who had been by my side for years, could lie so easily to me. Like it was second nature, the expected thing to do. She didn’t even bother to deny it. Like she knew I wouldn’t push, just to avoid things getting ugly.

That’s what stung most: how easily she decided my trust could be borrowed. I swallowed the truth. Kept it to myself. Assuming, no— hoping — it was a one-time occurence and being caught would mean she’d stop. The tiny voice in me knew she wouldn’t. And I stuck around anyway.

Truthfully, I’m not completely sure why. I should’ve dropped her years ago. But to say it plainly, something about being friends with her made me feel safe. With her, I could be loud, messy, and “too much” in every way. I’d lean into my true bubbly personality and stop being the quiet girl that came as a coping mechanism.

What I didn’t quite grasp, was how much it would cost to keep that version of me alive. With every other whim and lie I was told, it wasn’t just my trust she was losing. It bruised the ten-year-old Zinnia who believed being easy was how people would stay. Or, more accurately, I let her. That’s what I hide today. That I would rather live with constant betrayal than live alone.

She kept the pencil case like she kept me. Borrowed, casually misplaced, and no big deal when found. Over all this time, she borrowed the best parts of me. The parts that shined. And I let her, hoping she’d return them. But I know now, that she never will. She never had to. That’s on me, really, since I never asked. And, I still doubt if I would.