Tears streak her face. All dried up. But they might as well be streaming like Niagra Falls for the look she gives the stain on the carpet. She looks forlorn, yet somehow empty of all emotion at the same time, as if she would never smile, never feel anything again.

I hold her hand and give her a kiss on the cheek. Knowing better than to ask what’s wrong, I hold her close.

“Remember the good times,” I say. That’s what we always said, her and me. We had this understanding. You don’t ask. If she wants to share, she will. So instead you hold her close and remind her that life is okay, that it’ll get better. It always does. And we sit together, rocking back and forth, one in the other’s arms, remembering the good times.

And though I don’t know what’s wrong, that’s what I do, send my positive energy her way.

I remember elementary school. How we’d known each other for years before we ever actually knew each other. And then when fourth grade came and I started talking to Ashley. Ashley was always the peace-maker. But she hated me. It was okay, though, because Ashley pushed us together anyway and somehow, we, the odd pair, became best friends.

I remember middle school. When she was there for me as I tried to make my way in a new school, with new people. I had no one. But she made sure to call me once a week to see how things were going; to see if I had made any friends yet. And we spent the weekends together, just her and me. She kept me sane.

I remember the multiple times each of us was in so deep we didn’t want to keep going. When we reached that level of depression only a best friend can help you through.

I remember the good times as well as the bad times we turned into good times. Together. Her and me. Me and her. And how we went through life together, her and me. Me and her. And after all the moments of bonding; after all the hard times and all the rough patches we got through together; after all this, my very best friend in the whole wide world can’t even look at me when she speaks the words:

“I’m leaving.”