The tears dripped down my face and smudged the ink on my white lined paper, turning words into nothing more than a smear of ink. I looked up from my homework and harshly wiped the salty drops from my face; I was never going to get anything done. I clicked on my phone, the screen registering the same 30 voice mails that were always there, the same 30 voice mails that I was never going to listen to. How was I supposed to get on with my life? I had so many questions. Sometimes I felt like the world has just stopped in its tracks, waiting for me to catch up. But I wasn’t going to; I’ve been stuck in reverse, ever since she left. Where did she go? Why? I miss her so much; I had never left her side. But now she’s gone. A missing piece of the puzzle: a missing piece of my life.
We were inseparable, best friends since kindergarten. But then, she wasn’t there any more. Vanishing without a trace, and all I had left was the fraying bracelet she gave me when we first met, almost ten years ago. I touched the thin strings, the bracelet barely holding together, carrying too much weight. It was holding me together, almost like she used to. Its blue and green fibers pulling tight, weaving a pattern around my wrist, and my heart. It was more than jewelry; it was a lifeline. Who was she anyway? She gave me a bracelet and called me her best friend. I was young, I never doubted. But would my best friend leave me like that? I didn’t think so! I didn’t even know this girl!
My fingers automatically went back to my bracelet, just like they did every time I was upset. But this time I stopped myself. I didn’t need the help of a girl who I only thought I knew, a girl who left me. I didn’t need her answers, or her explanations. I needed other friends, real friends. Friends who won’t pick up and leave at a moments notice.
I grabbed the scissors off my desk before I could second –guess myself, and as the blades cut through the thin tendrils of string, I felt stronger. Those small threads were my bonds, not my saviors. And suddenly, I didn’t need her anymore. Without a second thought I tossed what was left of that bracelet into the empty wastebasket. I watched it float to the bottom, almost in slow motion, and when it finally hit the bottom I started to cry. I cried and screamed and finally, after letting myself go, I felt better.
I stood straight, I changed out of the wrinkled gray sweatpants I had been living in and put on the clothes that were mine. The clothes that she wouldn’t have liked me to wear. She liked to blend in with the crowd, wearing her sweatpants, or her short skirts and heels, depending on the day. But I always wanted to be in between, just a person. One of those people who could be themselves and yet still be welcome, still have friends; one of those girls who could laugh and cry about silly, almost foolish, things and have people laugh and cry along with them. For her, you couldn’t do anything that people would notice, or that people would see as different. But why couldn’t I be different? We could’ve been different together.
But no, she had to be the picture of society, never showing any emotion, and I just followed. She was the puppet master: I was the puppet.
I adjusting my cropped jeans and pulled a ruffled light blue tank top. The neckline didn’t swoop as low as the things I used to wear, it just rested delicately on my collarbones, its braided straps snug against my shoulders. I smiled as I pulled my hairbrush out of my drawer. This was something I never would’ve worn. Everything I used to wear was low cut, or short or tight. This was none of those things, but I liked it. It may not be what the queen bee wore, but it was what I liked to wear. I pulled my hair back from my face and tied it up in a messy bun: the kind of bun that I always thought would look cool but had never dared to try. It stood out. I slipped my feet into my light green converse and walked towards the door.
On the way I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror- I was different than ever before. Underneath my tear stained face and sleepless eyes, I was confident. I looked like one of the girls that I always wanted to talk to but who wasn’t cool enough for her. Just before I walked out the door I looked at my phone one last time. 30 voice mails all from her: probably excuses, her telling me how to act and what to do. But enough about her, this is my story: the story of how I cut my puppet strings and became my own master. I clicked delete and walked out the door.