In first grade, I met someone who became my best friend. Once the year ended, we found ourselves split from each other, forced to move away. We only spoke once a year, but for those moments where we could, life seemed to be perfect. No matter how much time passed, we still were best friends, and nothing seemed to change that.

I soon had to move to a home even further away, and when I shared the news, our simple bliss was shattered. We kept talking through messages and saw each other every year, but as time went on, my family started to notice that my friend was getting more depressed over the course of our meetings and told me to stop talking to them. I ignored them and threw myself into the role of a therapist, trying to help despite all the budding issues of mine that lurked in the shadows, feeding off the sadness I thought I was helping solve.

I started to feel genuine love for them in a way that meant I wanted to potentially be in a relationship. One day, after many long hours of contemplation, I finally admitted this to them late at night. My nervousness felt as if it seeped through the walls of my room, perpetuating the coming minutes with a shroud that haunted me no matter what I did to distract myself. But after about 30 minutes of pure silence, to my relief, they responded and admitted to feeling the same. 

Time went on and I couldn't be happier. The sadness they confided to me started to recede, but in their place, those forgotten buds of new problems began to bloom. Requests to keep talking long into the night, wanting my attention no matter what, needing to vent to me about all of their problems; signs that they were potentially feeling much worse than what they let on. Talking with them was starting to negatively affect me; I started to show signs of the very same depression that burdened them. The love we shared had begun to twist and contort into an awful thorn-covered rose; beautiful from a distance, but only painful for those who hold it.

One day, my dad's physical health started to plummet with no explanation why. I reflexively clung to my one escape: talking to my friend. That was, until the truth finally emerged: my dad was dying of a brain tumor. We needed to leave our home immediately to get him to a specific hospital out of state. That night, I kept to myself, scared about the future. What if I had to live the rest of my life without the person who I respected the most?

Then, my phone buzzed with an all-too-familiar sound. My friend needed to vent after a hard day.

After several long minutes of nervous contemplation, I eventually chose to explain my dad's situation instead of letting them vent. I tried to distract myself when another text message hit. And then another. In seconds, I found myself assaulted with hate messages beyond what I had ever seen. I failed them, I wasn't there for them, how could I be such a horrible and terrible failure? For a brief moment, the rose wilted, showing me a future I thought I deserved; one where I could never be forgiven for my greatest failure: betraying the person who loved me.

I broke out weeping. My parents came to see what was going on. I hadn't told them anything; why would I? They hated my "friend" as it was, so hearing all of the things I had done would likely lead to repercussions. Instead, the building loathing and sorrow in my mind dissipated as they gently embraced me. For the first moment in years, without my thoughts wandering to think about how I would rather be alone, I thought about what would make me happiest.

And somewhere, a new flower bud was planted, this one primed to grow into a beautiful iris.