A Love Story for the Chronically Anxious

samara brown

I. A bow in your hair—pink against your blonde curls. A playground—shiny and fake. We were five then, and we didn’t know anything, though our dreams must have been as real to us as the hard plastic of the slide you were entering. As you fell, your dress billowed weightless around you, and your friends at the bottom cheered. When you stood, the grin on your face was triumphant. You took off, giggling, the satin ends of the ribbon pirouetting in the wind.

II. The first day of fourth grade, when you appeared at my doorstep, a book in your hands, the cover burgundy and embossed with gold.

“I need someone to read with,” you offered as an explanation, looking up at me through wide dark eyes, “It’s sad to read fairytales alone.”

I let you in, and we gazed at the pages together, the vivid watercolors. I pointed at a picture of a princess.

“That one looks like you,” I said, and you smiled.

I made Kraft mac & cheese and split it into two bowls, and we ate until we were full.

“I think you’re my friend now,” you said, and I grinned, nodding.

III. Two summers after—the patio behind your house with ice pops staining our tongues. Your friends wanted you to move on, but you said you’d rather leave them than me, and so I savored every minute with you, watching the hyperactive red juice drip down the sides of your fingers.

IV. The love-colored pink and red threads make up the friendship bracelet you gave me halfway through eighth grade. The other kids our age were having their first drinks and their first boyfriends/girlfriends, but we watched them, uncaring, content to be alone together.

“What’s this for?” I laughed.

“So they’ll never be able to keep us apart,” you responded, tying the frayed ends over my wrist tightly enough that I would have to cut them to take the bracelet off—I wondered who “they” were—it didn't matter. The bracelet on your arm matched mine, and I was struck with the feeling that we were bound together for life.

V. It took another year to realize I loved you, a glowing pink feeling, though it was a gradual process that must have started years before. The knowledge came with less anxiety than it should have, no worries of she’sagirlI’magirl—no fear of being weird or wrong. I never told anyone, though, that I was gay, let alone you, because I didn’t know how you’d respond, because it didn’t matter anyways. And even the fact that you were my best friend caused me less distress than it perhaps should have. Because I had spent so much of my life loving you that you were more myself than I was, and so even when I found the words to explain it, nothing had changed in any significant way. And it was comforting to know you’d never requite my feelings, how could I know, and that I’d never have to worry about our friendship falling apart or if you liked me in that way, or not. I would keep my love to myself, and no one could take it away from me because no one would know it existed.

VI. You made new friends, beautiful girls and lively boys who laughed at your jokes and invited you to hang out after school. You had grown; you were no longer the girl you had been. You went to parties, wore fashionable outfits, and were always doing something. To be fair to you, I wasn’t the same either. I cut my hair, cut class, cut myself. We had stayed children for so long that when the time came to grow up, we shot into the sky and stayed wherever we landed.

You had become popular; I had become an outcast from myself. When the time came for junior prom, you went with a boy you barely liked; you caught my eye, hoping I’d ask, even though, as children, we’d always said we’d go together.

I sat under the bleachers on the football field, drinking from a bottle of vodka I’d stolen from my parents’ stash. You were in the gym, dancing, and I was out here. I took another drink. I felt, not heard, someone sit next to me, and I turned slightly. It was you, cheeks flushed blush-pink, breathing heavy. Without a word, you took the bottle and drank for some time. You said my name, I think, and you looked as if you wanted to say something; you rested your head against my shoulder. “I needed to get out,” you murmured into my skin. You needed me. You were exhausted, and your eyes fluttered closed. I knew I should call your parents to pick you up or else find some other way to get you home, but I only sat there, unable to move you away from me. My vision blurred. The white lights that lit up the field looked like stars.

VII. Senior year, you got a boyfriend. He was taller than you, broader, and he held your hand in the hallways. One day he surprised you with carnations in your locker; another day, he gave you a heart-shaped locket set with a rose-colored stone. You beamed up at him, radiant, and you paused to glance back at me never looked back as you passed. Soon it would be time for graduation, and maybe we would sign each other’s yearbooks, but probably not, and we would promise to stay in touch, but I you would never reach out. We would fall apart in the way most friends do. We wouldn’t have if I had talked to you. It was the way things had to be.

VIII. Five years later, a mutual friend’s party. We hadn’t spoken since high school, and when you saw me, your eyes widened; you smiled awkwardly and mentioned that you knew me. Your lips were painted scarlet, and they left marks on the rim of your wine glass. I took a glass as well. We talked. You had broken up with your boyfriend; you had graduated the year before and were working as a wedding planner in New York. Your friend’s apartment was too small. We both drank more than we should have. The words came out, years of them. I forgot why we had ever stopped.

We stumbled out into the street and found a park bench to sit on. Dizzily, you half-fell, bumping up against me. Your hand reached out to touch mine, and I flinched back. You didn’t seem to notice. “I love you,” you said, You were drunk, “I always have,” you didn’t know what you were saying. I had to get away before I said something back, and then you leaned over and

IX. Kissed me.

X. Everything changed. The world shifted around me, and I kissed you back, and all those years of longing collided into each other and slammed around in my chest, and maybe I was too violent, and maybe I was too desperate. When we separated, I reached out a tentative hand and brushed away some of the red lipstick that had smeared on your lips. If we could stay in this moment forever—if the sun would never rise and the people would never move—I would never leave.

But the truth was that loving you was so much of who I was, yes, but so was wanting. I could only maintain the fantasy if we were never together, so I pretended you didn’t care because if you did, we were in danger. The best novels were never written, yes, but so were the worst. And what would we be?

Samara Brown is a junior at Byram Hills High School in Armonk, NY.