It was going bad to say the least, it was not as awkward as I’d imagined it’d be yet it was probably as awkward of a conversation as you could get between two best friends. There were many uneasy silences and moments where I could tell she had a million things to say to me, but just didn’t want to speak them out loud. I also refrained from sharing things too. I wanted to seem chill and pretend like I had the wisdom of a million lives. I wanted her to believe that to me this was just another small pot in the road and not actually the large gaping sinkhole threatening to swallow me whole that it was.

She knew that I was hurt, and I knew she was hurt as well. But the question of exactly how much pain it caused each of us was not answered.

 Was this simply a small conflict, one insignificant failed relationship in her life?

Was she upset for maybe a day and then able to brush it off not too long after?

Or was she like me, constantly being eaten alive by the same guilt and the sense of loss that plagued me every day following the fight?

These were the thoughts gnawing away at the back of my brain as I sat there across from her, cautiously sipping from the hot cup of tea she had offered when I first stepped inside. I clutched the blue and white mug and pondered before carefully placing it down on the small coffee table.

It had been a week since our friendship had been called off in a string of messy late-night texts. And now, we decided that we needed to talk about it all face-to-face, discuss what the issues in our friendship were and talk about them openly to resolve them and give us both the clarity and answers we needed to get past this. The original motive remains unclear to me; if this was intended as a discussion to help us both move on in life without each other or if it was what we needed to become friends again.

I glanced at the mug for a few seconds before looking back at her with false confidence. This meeting wasn’t exactly planned. She had indeed messaged me out of the blue that day asking if I wanted to meet up to talk, however, I saw that text as I was already over halfway to her house walking there straight from work unannounced.

She stared at me after I put down my tea and was probably waiting for me to say something else. It was around 4:00, but she was still dressed in her sleepwear consisting of her graphic tee and pajama pants with her hair not brushed while I was wearing my work clothes, greasy and smelling of mustard, sweat, and milkshakes.

I was frustrated with myself and the anger-fueled choice I made to cut her out of my life, however very wounded by the emotional turmoil her behavior put me through. The factors that led up to my decision seemed so significant the week prior and the petty way I pushed her away seemed like the perfect solution. Afterwards, the loneliness and heartache whenever I was reminded of her only added to the burn that she caused me throughout the last few months of our friendship. To me, it was evident that I must have made a mistake and that’s why only a week later I went to her for answers.

Since I needed to know her side of the story so much, I let her tell her perspective and I probably asked too many questions but I was desperate. I was searching for answers, searching for the things she didn’t like about me or for her to tell me something that’d magically provide explanation for it all. I longed for her to look me in the eye and tell me why it was that she chose to keep secrets from me for all those months and had ignored me when I needed her most. Though she shared plenty of information, I still felt that I had to defend myself in between her turns to talk despite not entirely wanting to. I told my point of view as well, adding in plenty of details and several specific things that I’d felt before, during, and after the breakup yet as I sat across from her pouring sections of my heart out it seemed like I was an automated voice spitting out random syllables without any passion or humanity. I stated everything so dryly like I was reading from a textbook. I was so afraid of getting hurt again, yet I’d already pathetically showed up at her door uninvited. Why was there any reason to act so unbothered when I was obviously broken?

We both confessed to things we did wrong yet simultaneously made clear the stuff we thought was justified. We stated our regrets and corrected any misinterpretations. We also shared details from our side of the story that we’d kept secret.

At one point between confidential remarks she paused as I was drinking my no longer warm tea, “I thought about burning the book and almost actually did,” she said dryly.

I knew which book she was referencing. It was the hardback copy of the newest novel in her favorite series that I gave her on her birthday. I spent so much time and money on it. Not to mention how I impatiently waited for it to be released and proceeded to stand for hours in line to get the author’s autograph when her family was out of town.

I grimaced at the odd taste of cold chamomile while thinking of what to say next. I wasn’t entirely surprised or mad at her confession though I certainly didn’t like hearing it.

“I considered selling that necklace you gave me.”

It wasn’t at the same petty level of her want to physically destroy my present yet it was also true. During the past week I had debated doing many cruel things.

“I don’t blame you.”

“Me neither,” I replied.

The amount of her mannerisms I learned after knowing for 6 years is fascinating. I knew that when she was very nervous her voice would fade out near the end of each sentence and she’d fumble over words while avoiding eye contact opting to focus on her hands instead. I saw her occasionally speak that way with parents and teachers when she felt intimidated or ashamed. Having her address me in that same fashion was unsettling.

“I’m sorry for showing up here uninvited like a creep but I couldn’t take any more of the guilt and lack of explanations, I didn’t really plan for all of this,” I apologized softly.

Immediately after I clocked out of my shift earlier, I went over to the grocery store next to my workplace and anxiously called a few other friends as I paced up and down the ketchup aisle trying to sort my thoughts out. All afternoon I’d been thinking about everything that had happened in the past week. I was highly emotional and barely able to focus on anything else and wanted all of it to disappear. The irrational decision to make her to talk to me seemed like a valid solution in that moment and by the time I was at her house and rethought everything, realizing how insanely bad my choice was it was already too late to back out. She’d seen me outside through her window and called me in.

She told me it was alright and we discussed some more. At one point her younger brother even brought us some burnt popcorn to eat yet most of the bowl remained untouched. Sharing how we both felt after the fight helped heal some of the scars. We were finally beginning to relax and relate to each other again. I confessed to asking my other friends for advice about how to deal with the strain in our relationship and she in return told me the crazy things she ranted about to her therapist. I opened my notes app on my phone and let her read each of the embarrassingly written poems about the friendship that I randomly wrote whenever I was depressed and we laughed it off.

A majority of the tension had gone away and talking about things got less difficult. It was awkward and surreal, yet we managed to forgive each other than planned what needed to change and what we both had to do differently. I’ll always regret the emotion driven decision I made when I pushed her out of my life. As for the one I made to talk to her that day, I don’t think I’d take it back but instead maybe go and make myself think about it more before going through with it. I now know not to make important choices when I’m too upset to think straight because it’s very hard and often impossible to take them back.