My first memories of friendship at the YMCA are vague. I can recall fragments of events such as the few times Anna, Olivia, Felicity, and I soared around the playground as fairies in third grade. Or was it horses? I’m not sure. Nonetheless, I recall the grey, aloof January clouds blanketing the fenced-off play structure as I glanced back at the three girls following me.

For the first time in a while, I enjoyed the plot for that day’s game. It probably had something to do with escaping a dangerous place. During school, I would squeal just thinking about playing an escape game; since Anna never reigned as ruler of the story’s universe during these games, I persuaded the group to act out my stories. In preparation for these days, I gathered all of my stuffed animals on the living-room carpet at home, pondering the endless possibilities of stories to write. On the rainy, winter weekends, the pitter-patter of the Portland rain outside eased my excitement, preventing me from getting too carried away with my plans. 

Unlike the games Anna forced us to play, I wrote the four of us as equals cooperating against the imaginary, oppressive dictator. As my friends wrote whimsical tactics to combat my plot obstacles, the hollow gap in my chest ignited like a hearth. In these moments, my imagination ran amok, intertwining with those of my friends’. United in the exchange of ideas, I lowered my guard around them when playing this type of game.

Again, I’m not too sure what exactly happened on this rare occasion. On most days, the plot of the game would not have mattered anyway. I was lucky enough to befriend the only group of third-graders; they were my only option. Moreover, the thought of the three girls banishing me from the group stung my chest. As a result, I strung along, bearing their mundane princess and puppy games. Serving as Queen Anna’s obedient servant every single day after school hollowed out the hearth in my chest as the seed of resentment sprouted inch by inch.

The plant of bitterness fully sprouted in seventh grade when I yanked its roots from the ground and tossed it in the trash bin. Though applying particularly to Anna, the group of girls picked apart my irredeemable flaws once middle school started. However, I wasn’t desperate anymore; I met a new friend in math class that replaced them all.

Even with this new friend, though, the hollowness in my chest never faded. Despite the flow of creativity we constantly fed to each other, our friendship lacked something. Specifically, I experienced this something briefly during those times I played escape games with my friends back in third grade. It certainly wasn’t my new friend’s fault; she supported my ideas and added along to them the same way my old friends used to solve my plot conflicts.

Consequently, we communicated primarily through online messaging. Somehow, I found it far more emotionally convenient to just send her a text rather than make plans to hang out. I took comfort in the physical distance between us, only suggesting we physically hang out together once every year. 

Likewise, my after-school schedule was replaced by an entire four-hour chunk to sit alone in my room as my parents worked late. Closing the door to my room in an empty house, I turned off notifications on my phone to relish my solitude. During that time, I binged online gaming videos and scrounged for entertaining social media posts by online strangers. Watching other people interact online was much more satisfying than talking to actual people. I began to pull away from the friend as I dived headfirst into living online.

Naturally, that friendship broke apart in sophomore year. However, I suffocated in the desolation. The simple act of going online to check social media fared too difficult of a task. Subsequently, my after-school activities gradually morphed into staring at the ceiling as my chest opened into a rapidly expanding sinkhole. Despondent, I was far too weak to even consciously allow gravity to push me into the floor. I fully expected to never make a friend, passionately accepting my fate in a paradoxical twist.

Flash forward to junior year, I was surrounded by some boys in my history class. I knew one from middle school, the rest from my freshman year. They tossed jokes around as if they were playing hot potato, bouncing them off of each other in rapid-fire. Unexpectedly, they let me in on their antics, and the hearth my chest once held began glowing once again.

All of a sudden, I desperately yearned for an escape from my isolation. I devised a plan to create an online group chat with these boys and their friends, fidgeting with excitement. However, I hesitated; a torrent of questions casted doubt on my plan. Was I ready to be vulnerable with these boys? Would we be friends? How will I know when to stop myself when they get close enough to hurt me?

In a moment of impulsiveness— and perhaps innocence— I invited these boys to the group chat. Ever since that day, they have added their friends as well.

We initially all joined online calls on our group chat to play video games. Their immature banter with each other slowly closed up the sinkhole in my chest. Furthermore, I reminisced on that something that I experienced only when playing those escape games back in third grade; my three friends and I were unified in creative problem solving, whereas these boys and I united in common interests and mutual friends. Through this, our relationships developed strongly. It got to the point where a few people and I would stay up until three in the morning just talking about life or things in general.

Perhaps I consider this event closure to a childhood qualm. After all, I can once again unify with the friends that surround me. However, the fearful voice in my head questions how long this group will stay together. Will the group fall apart swiftly just like my group from third grade? Moreover, to what extent would such event damage the vulnerability and innocence I currently possess? Nevertheless, the future holds no certainty, and it does not fare me well to dwell on the dissolution of the friend group. Rather, I must remember that the innocence in friendship did return after years of resentment.