Nothing Lasts Forever

My point of view is physically exactly the same as last semester. I sit beneath her silk, golden yellow, and flower patterned comforter. In the corner hangs a five dollar black-edged Target mirror, indicative of her bargain-hunting instincts. Next to it is her hanging shoe organizer. If you count down to the fifth cubby hole, you’ll see a pair of purple satin square peep-toe stilettos. The black heel is no more than 2.69 inches high and a centimeter wide, a killer shoe to both the wearer and any victim of the wearer’s kick.

We bought those in Taiwan together. She had needed a pair of formal dress shoes and of course asked me to come along. These took my breath away, but they were just a tad too big, leaving just enough space in the back of the right shoe (since my feet were different sizes) for my right heel to slip out every other step I took. I adored those shoes, but she needed them more and they actually fit her, so I let her buy them.

I was always doing stupid things like that, making these little “sacrifices” like never eating my raspberries or blackberries in my fruit bowl because she loves them, or taking care to remember silly little things like how Diane by Guster is her favorite song, or keeping the plastic cup she shaped into a flower on my windowsill to give her at graduation to prove I didn’t forget.

The shoes are still brand-new. The only wear they ever got was when I pranced around in them in her room, looking at my elongated body and arched ankle in the Target mirror, admiring my new silhouette. But that was when she loved me in the way friends love you and was my best friend, my first call when something new and exciting happened, when my world was falling apart, when I aced my calc test, when I failed my calc test, when E friendship “broke up” with her, when N hooked up with nine girls the day of WILD. But today, now, it is different. I see her once in a while instead of once a day, and I’m only hearing about this a week later.

“Do you even like him?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure. I’m confused.” She fiddled with the ends of her red jersey and polyester lined bath robe, not the one I bought her after searching three malls for the perfect one, which hung off her tall lamp in the corner.

“I thought you were a man-hater. And I still can’t believe you told EK first!” Increasingly, I had been demoted to second to EK. I had predicted the shift, saw it coming, and hoped it would end. I honestly thought it was another one of EK’s weeklong attachments to one friend and then she’d quickly move on to her next tissue friend---use once and throw away. But I didn’t realize she had bought the Kleenex for keeps until they decided to room together, conveniently forgetting me.

“Now I’m starting to wish I hadn’t told you.”

“E, you can’t date him out of pity.”

“But he was so happy when I said yes.”

I remember when she used to make me happy. The day after my calc exam, she handed me a box of muffins. The lid said, “Good Luck J!” The inside of the lid said “You’re a star!” The folds of the sides said “Shoot for the moon if you miss you will land among the stars.” (As an editor of her past Writing 1 papers, I can say with extreme authority that she never used commas) The flaps of the sides of the box said “I love you” in traditional characters. I have always loved her and told her so, but rarely did she ever say it back. I had grown accustomed to this and lived with the unrequited love. I got out of her bed, put on my shoes, grabbed my backpack, ready to leave.

“I love you.”

“Bye, J.”

“Bye, E.” I walked out, wanting her to say it back before the door’s latch clicked shut, hoping on the off chance that this would be one of those days where she would magically say those three words out of nowhere.

Silence.