Dear Scott,

Sometimes, I just want to ask you what happened. You still live next door, blue house with the newly-renovated inside, but a 20-year-old roof. Your mom told me you got a 10 by 10 foot walk-in closet. I wish I had one; you know, the workers woke me up on the weekends, when you were renovating, I mean. If we were still kids, I would’ve thrown a rock at your window and you would’ve told the workers to be quiet, just for me. Right? Anything to protect me, your bestest friend in the world. You called me that, once. Only once, but once is enough for me to savor.

It catches my eye when you turn off your lamp at 8PM every night, right on the dot. Then, I wait for the dim hues of your television, rays of which are trapped by your 400-thread count satin curtains. I helped your mom pick them out when we were younger; you probably don’t remember. But then again, even if you do—I want to believe you do—I know you don’t care anymore.

I remember that time when we were six or seven and we went down to Steve’s Ice Cream Shop, down by the beach. Waves crashing, our laughter harmonizing. Remember, at the end of each day, our voices being as coarse as the sand beneath our toes? Oh goodness…remember that ice cream rule we had to follow? Two scoops of chocolate chip ice cream for you because you’re born in February and three scoops of cherry ice cream for me…even though I’m born in April. I never wanted you to feel bad, only getting two scoops, so I always told your mom my birthday was in March. That’s how much I cared about you, Scott. Even at six.

I think your mom knew I loved you. Honestly, at that age, one scoop of ice cream may as well be a zillion dollars. On second thought though, maybe she didn’t. Who knows. Or in our case, who cares?

I never told you this, but remember that summer my family went on vacation, without yours? We went to Hershey Park, if that helps to jog your memory at all. I went on my first roller coaster there, right after having a milkshake of some kind. I want to say it was a chocolate one, but I could be wrong. The point is, I went on the roller coaster and right after? Puked my whole milkshake up. Hey, don’t laugh. I was like, ten. Anyway, so, I was so traumatized that I didn’t think I’d ever want to go on a roller coaster again. But then, the next summer, you and I went to Rye Playland with Kaylee and Chris. I remember eating pizza that night…you teased me for getting Sbarro. Sometimes, if I try really hard, I can still feel your breath in my ear, whispering about the cardboard texture its pizza tends to have. Afterward, you asked if any of us wanted to go on that scary-as-hell roller coaster with you. We all said no, but then you turned to me. I remembered what happened at Hershey Park, but you looked at me, your beautiful green eyes as soft as the overhead clouds. How could I have said no?

Then it was freshmen year of high school. I really believed, Scott, that one day I’d tell my kids about you. About how we were high school sweethearts back in the day, about our first kiss, about living a life where you’re in love with your best friend. I really thought that one day, I could really do that. It was so idiotic of me, but sometimes, I even imagined marrying you, standing beside you saying ‘I do.’
But then, we walked into English class. Third period, the clouds outside tinted with gloom. And the moment you saw her, I knew I lost any chance I had with you. You fell in love. I watched you fall in love with that girl. I will forever remember her first day of school outfit, pin-straight hair, scarily white teeth, and rose-petal red lips. Laura is her name, right? What she stole from me I will never get back.

I honestly thought something inside me shattered. I didn’t care who I was rude to, whose days I turned upside down. It was like my life gave up on me. I didn’t talk to you for days. I was just mad…but didn’t you know I’d come around?

You shut your door, wouldn’t let me apologize. The last night I tried to, you made me watch your family eat dinner, from outside the window, because you knew I was waiting for an opportunity to say sorry. You didn’t want to hear it, but still, why didn’t you let me?

And then, the next week, I saw you guys holding hands. You made eye contact, but I stupidly pretended that I didn’t see you. I regret not ripping her hand from yours and telling you I loved you, right then and there. It felt like fire burned from within me; I was so embarrassed. How could I have even remotely thought you loved me?

But that day, we came home off the bus and I thought I heard your voice. I didn’t know it then, but it was the last time I would ever hear you say my name. November 12, 2010. I remember. You kissed me. And walked away. That was the first and last time I held you, in my arms.

I see you two together, on campus sometimes. You hold hands; she smiles. I sometimes wish I were her. But I know you’re treating her right and that’s what’s important, I guess.

November 12th just passed…it’s been over a year since our first kiss: my first kiss. I just wish…oh never mind. I thought writing this letter...pulling up memories that matter to me, reliving those days…would help. But now, I just feel empty. Hey, now that I think of it, do you remember that time when…goodness. What am I doing?

You love someone else. I have to stop trying to catch your eye. I can’t keep wishing at 11:11; there’s no point. You know I hate superstitions, but I’ve wished on every fallen eyelash for as long as I can remember: for you; it’s stupid and it doesn’t work. I want to hate Laura, but how can I? I’ve always been the one who constantly preaches to not judge a book by its cover.

You love someone, but that someone isn’t me. Because I’d do anything for you, I’m going to try, Scott. I’m going to try to tell myself that it’s okay. That I’m okay. That I’m happy you’re happy…with someone who isn’t me.