We had dreams of writing stories you and I. We would take writing classes in high school, we'd share our work with one another just like a secrect.
That summer I told you everthing. We both were going through some rough times with irrational people. The two of us cried on eachothers shoulders, and wrote about our pain for the other to read.
Yet now, those once so precious stories that made us so proud are on some crumpled up paper somewhere under our beds. We write a story for one another now and then but not as often as we use to.
While our close bond starts to thin and wither away our stories, though may be frayed and crumpled under a bed, they will live on, with nothing else said.