She was three feet away from me, ankles trembling, hands sweating, gripping to the climbing tower as if it was giving life to her. As I gingerly approached my best friend, I realized how much had changed to the same girl who used to build magical treehouse forts and slay dragons with me in the span of two months. She had traded her khaki shorts for strappy summertime dresses, her wizard wands for a sparkly smartphone, and her rambunctious, adventurous life-long friend for girls who were too busy caring about their hair, and swooning boys to scour a forest for mystical nymphs. In the span of a mere two seconds, my best friend’s left leg had reached a lower ledge and slipped, risking her to fall to her death-granted that the climbing rope holding her weight would break. It may have been my Good Samaritan instincts, or a stubborn pride to show my advanced athletic abilities, or maybe even a small heartfelt tug to help a friend in need- just as that same friend had been a shoulder to cry on and a listening ear for so many years- but a fierce determination filled me to help my acquaintance continue her journey to the bottom of the structure.  

I realized the only way to do this was to pull her up towards a more stable ledge. I outstretched my right arm to meet her fingers, soft and welcoming as they had felt months before, yet with a touch of unfamiliarity to them I couldn’t comprehend. As she reached upward, my classmate’s long sleeve t-shirt rolled down her arm, revealing her pale skin. It was then that I saw them: deep cuts, swollen red on her inner elbow. These couldn’t have been caused by simple accidents of encountering sharp objects. They were distinct, unnatural-as if they were done on purpose. At that moment time stood still, my breath cut short as my brain tried to register millions of bits of information all at once. It was like a puzzle: though I had all the pieces, they never seemed to fit together the way my brain imagined-or maybe it was my own refusal to have them fit perfectly. I looked directly at her and saw her widened eyes looking directly at mine, the fire I had seen in them months before was now just a spark, a little glimmer that could go unnoticed. An unforeseen tension filled the void between us, as we warily navigated our feet to the next ledge holding onto each other for more than physical support.

My glazed look and saunter must have caught my gym teacher’s attention as she asked, “Are you alright?”. Like a phantom limb, I could still feel my classmate’s arm in my small tender hands, an arm that had once carried me home when my foot was attacked by hornets, but now carried the secrets of a broken, beauty queen who faced battles she didn’t deserve to fight. I blinked furiously as the corner of my eyes begin to water, let out a deep sigh, lifted the corners of my mouth and said: “No, I’m fine”. I look up to see an old friend of mine; she didn’t need to say the words, her eyes already spoke them: Thank you.

The imprint of what I had seen wouldn’t leave me after this moment and would stay with me for years, giving me my own inner demons to battle with, and a plethora of regrets. In a way, she had saved me from realizing too late in life that it isn’t full of band-aids and kisses, but broken bones and permanent scars. But the scars that I’ve carried, ugly and imperfect, don’t burden me as they’ve used to, instead they help form the person I am now. If ten year old me could see how she turned out, I think I’ve made her proud.