Bromide

He was her best friend. She was his. She was in love with him, he loved a different girl every week. She listened aptly when he talked to her about whatever was on his brain at that moment. He talked and talked, and she was fine with that. She loved his voice, and she loved knowing that he actually wanted to talk to her. But she hated that he never saw her as more than a friend.

It was such a cliché, and she knew that. Girl loves boy best friend, boy sees girl as just a friend, boy is a player, girl tries to get boy to notice her, girl succeeds/girl fails, girl and boy live happily ever after/girl and boy live friendly ever after. But that wasn't how it worked for her. All of that happened, except the last two things.

She did try to get him to notice her. And he did. And he finally saw her as more than a friend. But they didn't live happyeverafter. Because they dated, she (foolishly) let him steal her virginity, he left her behind for a new girl, and she collapsed into herself. And that was all she wrote. She had only been fifteen, and he had already ruined her views on men, life, love. What a little heartbreaker.

She didn't even attempt to get him back. She was in a dark place, and no one came to save her. She was gonegonegone, and it was all his fault. She was a mess of a girl, a shadow, a shell of herself, only a piece of what had once been whole.

Desperation filled the empty space, and she hit the bottom of the pit. She leftleftleft, and only then did he care what he'd done. She was deaddeaddead, and he was sorry. It was too late for him to fix it, and he knew that.

Her funeral was beautiful and tragic. Open-casket, and it let him see what he'd driven her to. Scars up and down her mostly-exposed arms, as well as her legs. There were so many, so deep. It was magnificently horrendous, and he cried.