I knew it wasn’t going to work when he kissed another girl during seven minutes in heaven. The bottle landed in between us, but the raven-haired girl who was hosting the party decided that he should kiss her instead of me because we had, “Always been friends,” and because, “he needs someone new.” I let it go. I watched her walk away, her long blond hair swaying from side to side as she sauntered. They crossed the corner and I crossed my legs again, staring down at the shoes I was wearing.

We’ve been friends forever, that’s true. I spent childhood summers with him in the pool, at the library skimming through books. In middle school we both would tell each other about who we thought was cute, muffling our giggles with our hands. I shared my homework with him when he stayed up too late playing video games, and he stood up for me when someone started to pick on my braces. Although we had always been best friends, I never thought that either of us would get tired of being friends. I always thought it was a part of us, as much of his red hair as it was my freckles. I thought it was something we shared. Something we would never grow out of.

But I knew that, recently, I wanted to be more than best friends. I knew it had been brewing for awhile, sitting by quietly during each conversation, silently watching from afar. Those things that I had picked on him for (the plaid shirts, the goofy music) were suddenly endearing. I wanted to hear about the music he was writing, chin in my hand, eyes watching attentively.

But I knew that it wouldn’t work that night. I saw it when his eyes met hers before they met mine when the bottle stopped in between us. I saw it in the way that he walked off with her, without looking back. I knew it wouldn’t work when they started to taunt me about him, laughing about how long we had been friends and, “nothing else.” I knew it when the time was up and the raven-haired girl went to get them, her laughter shrill in my ears.

So I ran. I left the house and took off the impossible shoes that I was wearing, my feet hitting the pavement one, two, three, four all the way home. I was out of breath when I stopped, but that was the first time I had noticed how hard I was breathing. All the way home, I was thinking of the way that his eyes focused on her, the way that she smiled at him. I knew I was stupid then, so so so stupid to think that he would ever like me. Why would he like me when he knew all the worse parts about me? When he knew about the times when I peed the bed, the times when he was probably there, asleep on a mat next to me? Or when I drooled all over his shoulder?

I had already bandaged my blistered feet when he knocked on the door.

There was a moment when I wanted to bolt towards the door, run into his arms and forget about the stupid stupid party. But I couldn’t forget.

I walked outside and stopped halfway. I leveled my eyes at him. And then I waited.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his breath billowing out in the crisp air.

“Do you even like me?” I ask, and I can feel tears pricking my eyes.

“Of course I like you. I’ve always liked you,” he said. “But I can’t be there for you.”

I start to turn away, the tears spilling down my cheeks. When I turn to close the door, I swear I can see tears streaming down his cheeks, but I close the door anyways.

I knew it wasn’t going to work out when I saw the way he was looking at her.