And there, in the farthest corner away from the room, underneath my bed, tucked neatly under a pillow case with months of dust piled upon it, lies the old shoe box. It’s black, and stickers covering the words, but I can faintly make it out.

Girl’s converse, size six. I haven’t been size six in years.

Underneath the stickers and the doodles, underneath the jumble of double sided sticky tape and yellow rubber bands holding the lid tightly shut, lies the collection of ten long years, lost and forgotten. It’s painful and pitiful, with stories that could take years to explain. It’s empty wishes and dreams we created together, it’s the jokes only we could understand, and it’s the tear-stained pages that came from years of let downs.

I spend hours looking through the old shoe box, reading every note and trying to remember the day they were written.

They seem to follow me, haunting my every move from the corner of my room, like they have eyes that are screaming regrets.

The harder I try to forget, the worse it feels, and I’m not sure how much more I can take. I feel like screaming into the pillow, screaming out every lie you spoke, screaming out every pinky promise you broke.

You were never good at keeping promises.

But I keep looking at the box, keep thinking of the time where every picture was taken the highlight to my day, when every note was passed and how happy we use to be. Maybe I’m afraid of letting go, or maybe I’m afraid of never having a friendship as long as the one we had. Either way, your name is always in the back of my head, always locked away in my heart.

I take out the closest notebook and grab a pen. Thinking of you always gives me inspiration. Most of the time it’s painful, dark words that come to mind. But tonight, after hours of reading the happiest times of my life and seeing the smiles across our faces, I won’t cry. Sometimes it hurts to remember you, but other times I can’t help but be thankful for the person I shared the best and worst moments of my life with.

I’m scribbling across the page, a letter to you. It’s speaks the truth, how much I miss you, how sorry I am that we fell apart, and how honestly thankful I am that we once has a friendship. I write for hours, of the memories we once had, of the nights that turned into mornings, the phone calls that turned into hundred dollar phone bills.

My room consists of the memories we made, and my heart does too. If anything, I want to look back and remember them with happiness.

So I write you this letter, explaining how I wish things could go back, but we’re both smart enough to know that sophomores in high school are nothing like second graders, no matter how badly we want to be. Second graders, who were caught at two in the morning painting each others’ nails and telling stories. Second graders, who moved through out elementary school, to junior high, to high school together. Second graders, who eventually grew up and grew apart.

But tonight, with this letter and this box full of memories, I realize that growing apart doesn’t mean saying goodbye. Because every day, you sit across the room from me, you walk down the hall, you live down the street. Just because we’ve both made mistakes and we’ve both said our apologies more times than we ever should have had to, doesn’t mean we should keep going on like ten years of friendship never existed.

We may have grown apart and forgotten who we use to be. but I’m willing as long as you are. We may have to start over with a broken friendship, but at least it’s an existing friendship.

And every time that we end up having to pick up the pieces and start over again, I’ll always be willing to try. You were my first best friend, and you always have been, even when things fell apart.