My best friends from late elementary school are gorgeous. They’ve all well moved on from the age that the “weird people”usually go through–they’ve all moved on from me, more so.
I remember wondering, “wow, those beautiful people used to be my best friends.” The ones I had sleepovers with. The ones I did girly American things with, like playing dress-up and gossiping about boys we had crushes on. The ones I consoled in when not a single boy bought me a 1$ carnation on Valentine’s day (which is, to this very moment, my least favorite “holiday”). The ones who made me keychains with dog charms because they knew I absolutely loved dogs. The ones who bought me Taylor Swift CDs when she was still good, and the ones who gifted me Hannah Montana friendship bracelets before moving away to Oklahoma or other cities where they would forget everything pre-fifth grade like I was never at part of their lives and I’m totally fine with it.
I remember thinking, “why didn’t they hang around after they all moved away? How come they never called?” And I remember being so excited at the very short-lived false hope that we’d all be able to stay together through high school but then finding out their parents decided otherwise in the middle of it all.
I lost touch with the best friends who would later became theater buffs (the main characters, mind you), the top miss in the small town beauty pageant, the star of the soccer team in a high ranking school, the scandal of the band.
But the ones I didn’t lose touch with are the truly beautiful ones. The ones with whom I could be my random, spastic self. The ones who went through the same stupid phase as I did. The ones who had serious trust issues in other people. The ones who stand out in a crowd because they’re not like anyone else because they’re… Weird.
Those are the best ones. Those are the real ones. Those are the ones I love the most for being themselves and not losing who they are amid the chaos.
Those are the ones who will last a lifetime and beyond.