In the beginning, I tried. I tried so hard to keep in touch. I still reach out, even now, but not with as much enthusiasm. There's a bit of a hopeless undertone to my texts now because I know. Because apparently, you are just as stubborn as I am. My texts went unanswered, and any calls seemed to go straight to voicemail. The only way I know what's going on with you anymore is because of Facebook and Instagram.

You've successfully made me feel more unwanted and unloved than I had ever felt in my life. When I had moved away, I had promised to keep in touch, and you had returned that promise in full. But only one of us upheld our bargain. Anytime I had visited my hometown, you seemed excited to see me, and I'd feel hopeful. But then I'd leave again and there'd be no word from you until the next blue moon when we crossed paths again.

I'll be the first to admit that, when I had moved, I wasn't in the greatest mental state. Hell, I hadn't been in the best mental state before I had moved to another city. My depression and anxiety weighed on me a lot, but you had really helped -- when you were there that is.

Did you know I kept all those old, cringe-inducing photographs? All the pictures from birthday parties, sleepovers and spontaneous photoshoots (because why not delude ourselves into thinking we were models)? Did you know that I still have all your cell phone numbers and that anytime I look through my contacts, I contemplate whether or not any of them have changed? I realize that I'll never even know. I'll never fucking know and that makes me so goddamn sad. By us moving apart, did we really negate years of friendship and growing up with each other?

Sometimes, I wonder if there was something I had done wrong -- something I could have done differently.

I remember when I went to one of the last boy's basketball games at my old school, and most of you were there. Each one I ran into -- you all looked so excited to see me. You all smiled so easily, and I'm so frustrated that I couldn't bring myself to say any of my doubts and ponderings out loud because goddamnit I still had hope that maybe I had been wrong and that this was the moment that would trigger the communication I had been craving for three and a half years.

I don't know your reasons for not talking to me. I don't know what I did or didn't do to make you stop talking to me. If I did, I'd fix it in a heartbeat.

Now it just feels too late to try. You're all strangers now. Strangers with names I used to know, faces that I vaguely recognize, and pasts that I know like the back of my own hand. I know you, yet I don't at the same time. I'm stuck in this paradoxical limbo, still trying my damnedest to reach a person who probably isn't even there anymore.

And as much as I no longer really know you, I don't recognize your faces as well as I once did, and you no longer know me either. My favorite color is purple. I love rock music. I don't read as much as I used to. My depression and anxiety were better for a couple years before it spiraled again; I'm on meds now because I finally let my mom know there was something wrong. I cut my hair again and dyed it. I'm part of my college's color guard because I found a love for it. I'm going to turn twenty soon and it'll officially mark four and a half years without talking with you. I wonder, do you even remember my birthday?

Will you even see this?