Thirteen
It was thirteen years. Thirteen years of memories. Friendship. Sisterhood. Thirteen years of every emotion you could possibly think of or feel. Fear, love, sadness, hate, happiness, and every single thing in between. In retrospect, thirteen isn’t a large number. Thirteen years of life isn’t a long time. But when those thirteen years span from ages five to 18, it’s everything. You were everything I had in life. I wasn’t romantically in love with you. It went much deeper than that. I thought we would be friends forever. You promised me countless times over those thirteen years that nothing would ever tear us apart. I guess after you used me throughout middle and high school you were done with me, though. I don’t actually know if you were using me. Well, I know you were. At least thirteen times. We fought at least thirteen times, we made up over thirteen times. We cried together over thirteen times. I wish I knew how many times you actually loved me. I’d like to say thirteen. But I know it was much less than that. We went on vacation together. We traveled out of the state together, out of the country together. I supported you and saved you from whatever hell you were dealing with at certain times, and you I. But now I realize most of that was for nothing. Thirteen years of nothing that matters to you. You came home at least thirteen times and visited all your other friends. You didn’t even tell me you were home. “You should have come with us!” You’d text me after I saw your pictures of you and everyone else hanging out, yet thirteen times I wasn’t asked to come or wanted. Probably more. Part of me still believes you loved me back and needed me as much as I needed you. But you found other people to need you and love you. Better people than me. Thirteen used to mean so much to me. It was a wholesome number. A lucky number. Now 13 is nothing. And it will remain nothing until the end of my days.
