Sometimes when I see you I just want to shout “Stop! It’s not worth it! You deserve better than this! Stop doing this to yourself!” like it would actually change things. Like you would be like, oh okay, if you say so. Gah, I’m so dumb sometimes. Why did I let you become into this? You weren’t always like this. I remember once upon a time, we would paint each others nails and read juvenile teen magazines and hang pictures of Nick Jonas on our walls. And then your dad had to go die and ruin all of it. I know, I know, that sounds insensitive, but after brooding over the situation for a year, I boiled down your downfall to one key moment: your dad dying. You came and stayed at my house for almost two weeks after that because you couldn’t stand the sound of your mom crying. Sometimes you would wake up in the middle of the night and stare at me until I woke up, because you knew that creeped me out. Your big, teary aquamarine colored eyes would always stop me from yelling at you. You would tell me about your nightmare while I hugged you as tight as I could with my nerdy, freshman noodle arms. Your worst fear was being another statistic. You would say that I couldn’t let you turn into a stripper, or an alcoholic, or someone who couldn’t raise their kids because you were too screwed up from your childhood. I promised I wouldn’t let you do that. You deserved better.

You would never admit to anyone else that you were broken. You put on a great façade. As the months wore on, you would joke about having daddy problems and drugs. You’re two favorite D words, you would tell me. That sounds ridiculous, thinking back on it, you must have been high. Soon, you would run to any man who paid you to give them the love you craved from someone. Anyone. I thought it was just one of your silly games. I thought it was a story you would tell me like a child who needed a new bed time story. I never thought you could actually do that. I was so naïve.

The point of no return for you came when you’re mom left. I barely knew you then. I think you might have Facebook messaged me to tell me the news. Not even a call. I asked you where you were staying and told you I still had an empty guest room with your name on it. You obviously didn’t take that offer. And I always wonder what would have happened if you did. Would I be like you? Using any money I can scrounge up to buy the good stuff from shady people behind the track every Friday? Would I have a boyfriend who was old enough to buy me alcohol to wash away my troubles every night? Would I hurt myself to take away my pain?

I used to defend you when people would make fun of you at school. But I can’t defend you anymore. I’m out of excuses for you. “She had a tough childhood” “She’s just in a lot of pain right now” “She’ll be back to normal soon” No. I can’t do that anymore.

Now whenever I see you in the school bathroom, you blankly look at me with your now much duller version of your old aquamarine eyes. You look me up and down like I look familiar. Like you’ve seen me before, but you can’t place where. And I feel bad for you. Because you’re not you anymore. Now, you’re just another statistic.