“You know the answer,” she spoke.

“But why?”

“We’ve gone over that, too. Both sides of it.”

“If you loved me—“

“Stop. You know I love you more than anything. So don’t even bring that up.”

I’m sixteen now. I think it’s time for me to be over this guy, right? How does a friendship like this even last this long? I’ve known him since preschool. How the fuck a person loves someone they met in preschool, I wouldn’t be able to tell you, but it happened. I think I knew when I was six, but we were thirteen before anything happened. I still remember the look on his face. His choppy ash brown hair clung to his forehead, and his chest radiated under the incandescence of my bathroom. I could see his eyes well up before he embraced me, only to feel the desperation of his choking breaths and tears on my neck. I looked into the bathroom mirror over his shoulder and saw the same spell overcoming me.

“Its been three years. You should know the answer.”

“Do you really think I don’t,” I shouted with contempt, “Drop it! It’s not going to happen!”

Ah, it’s just like when we were thirteen. But this time, I was over it. Over this. I looked into his hazel eyes, expecting a response. He has grown since we were thirteen. He towered me by at least a head and a half, with long, pin-straight hair down to his chest. We were even in the same spots; it felt all too familiar. His eyes were empty this time, though. Something snapped when I looked into his eyes this time. Something most certainly died.

He gazed into mine and opened his mouth, as if to say something, but replaced his words with a bullet. Blood and brain matter painted the mirror behind him, and a spine-shivering gurgle escaped his mouth. We both dropped to the floor; my eyes went wide with emotion. I looked up into the mirror, only to notice something peculiar—the blood was a reflection from the wall and ceiling across from it.

I’m sorry that I couldn’t love you enough to embrace you. I wanted to love myself, I really did.