it feels nice to let go

because both of us can't pretend anymore

original gallery

Dear “Friend,”

We’ve promised to stay in contact, but we both know we won’t be using that number any time soon. We’ve promised to uphold a messaging streak, but we both know that our fingers will hover guiltily (or not?) over that button. We’ve promised to never forget each other, but because we both know that the mere mention of our names to the other will fill our hearts with a sort of melancholy as well as anger drizzled with confusion, we’ll hope we forget soon.

Let’s spell out a few truths that we’ll never say to each other.

Our friendship was doomed to begin with. As much as you’ll always tell me that you love me and that you genuinely appreciate me, your eyes do not shine, they glower. They glower with vengeance and hatred and some sort of envy.

I’m sorry.

At first I did not know there was something to be sorry for. On the outside you were P-E-R-F-E-C-T, you preached “communication” and “well-being” and “friendship” and I believed and followed. Your preaching brought me hope in dark times, and I blindly followed you because the sugar that rolled off your tongue was the sugar that I desperately needed to fuel my rush. Of course, you would genuinely believe those words yourself-it was what you taught. But in reality it was a presence that you needed to cover in order to sell your illusions, and in reality I was that product that you needed to market. In my eyes that were blind to your flaws, we were friends. But in your eyes, I was a product.

Besides, you had a market waiting.

“So practice and obey whatever they tell you, but don’t follow their example. For they don’t practice what they teach.“ - Matthews 23:3 (The Holy Bible)

I was under the impression that you did practice what you teach, and you were under the impression that practicing what one taught was a practice reserved for only the weak, and in order to seem weak but hide your punches you needed to pretend to practice what you taught.

Some of those punches were aimed at me, but I was too dumb to block them. Instead, I did not apologize. Rather, I waited for you to insinuate that you required an apology.

“I waited, and waited, you never came.” - Yung Yan (Singer-Songwriter)

You can’t expect me to apologize if you never said anything was wrong. (I am not a telepath, a fact that I thought you knew.)

I was always the third wheel.

Before me, you had a best friend. In the surface, we were both your “besties.” But in reality, if you needed to toss out one of us, I was the one that you would choose without a second thought.

She wasn’t a bad person. But it hurts when your lips form the word “both” and your actions signify the words “only her.”

Honestly, I liked your real best friend. I understood why you liked her better than me.

Of course, you weren’t a bad person. You still included me in the big things, things that would matter to an outsider with their limited scope. But it was the little things that really did get to me. Like bracelets that I didn’t have and little inside jokes that you didn’t explain and matching outfits that I wasn’t apart of.

There’s no room on a bicycle for a third wheel. (And we didn’t build a trike.)

Some things I needed to know, even if you didn’t say them.

Look, this is my bad-

I didn’t know common sense existed, back then.

But, some things I did you didn’t like and you didn’t tell me. You didn’t tell me that when playing a song with cuss words, it was customary not to sing the words out loud. (I was reading the lyrics.) You also didn’t tell me that it was customary for me to know of the existence of the song. (I did not, accustomed to classical music with no lyrics at all.)

And, you didn’t communicate after.

So then, a cycle occurs.

I am expected to know a thing.

I don’t know it.

I do something wrong.

You look at me with sad eyes full of pity and with that air full of annoyance.

I flush, embarrassed, your companions shoot me disparaging looks.

Repeat.

I was the charity case.

No need to lie.

You were the perfect girl that may have been breaking out in acne but everyone liked you. You were kind and nice and polite and beautifully amazing. So amazing. So great.

I was the social outcast after a career of “great” friends. My support center had vanished, my best friend disconnected, my social awareness and popularity nonexistent.

To me, you were an angel. You excused everything, brought me into your circle, told me what to do and how to do it. Maybe you looked at me with those hateful eyes, but you were nice on the outside and whenever I asked, people told me that you were nice.

But no matter what, I wasn’t someone you were friends with because you liked me. I was someone you were friends with because it made you look or feel better.

Even your father said so.

Our Friendship was built on lies.

“My dad told me,” you said, thoughtfully sipping from your bottled water that you’d insisted on bringing from home because the cafeteria was too expensive (funny how it was only too expensive when I had to buy from there or die of thirst but never too expensive when you found yourself in the same pickle) “that I should be friends with you.”

“Why?” I asked, because I was dumb and didn’t really see the glint in your eyes.

“He said that you would probably have no friends and he felt really sorry for you, so I should be friends with you.” You said, matter-of-factly, as if this was a fact. The sky is blue. Jellyfish are marvelous creatures. Dim sum is delicious. You are unlovable.

“And why would he say that?” I asked, prodding for more details. Public speaker mode was on with my headlights blaring light at any sort of hurt, poking at the truth of the matter.

“Because he said that you were the type of person that seemed that-” you paused, then barreled on, “that you wouldn’t have any friends.”

I looked at you. You sipped your water, like describing the plot of your new romance novel.

“He just said that you’re not very good socially, and you seem like the type to be hated." Then, you realized something. “But,” you added, “he said that you’re a good person. Just a little dumb.”

The thing that infuriates me is that you were insinuating that OUR friendship was not your choice. That OUR friendship was built by your father. That I was the type of person who would never be socially adept.

That I was stupid, and you wholeheartedly believed it. That you sought in my companionship because I was too dumb for anyone else.

What a saint.

“A house divided cannot stand.” - Abe Lincoln

Neither can a house built on lies, Lincoln. Especially if one of the builders never wanted it anyway.

No one in your circle approved of me-including you.

Your words made it very clear that I was a burden on you.

“My mom thinks that I am wasting my time hanging around with you.”

“I don’t know-I’m too busy to talk about your feelings right now. You’ll get over it.”

“I’m not your free therapy, don’t burden me.”

“I don’t need your help, so you shouldn’t need mine.”

“Okay, and?”

“Honestly, if I have to hear one more thing about your family drama, I’ll lose it.”

Look, you were great. Still great. As long as I laughed and smiled and talked about anime with you, you were amazing. You kept up to date on the same seasons, liked the same characters, agreed on the important issues. You shared your food, braided my hair, and gossiped about the newest couples and the hottest breakups.

It was a great friendship, except for the fact that you had an attention span of approximately five minutes when I talked about any deep, emotional things. Of course, only with me. When your bestie cried about her own parents, you hugged her and listened to her and called her and brought over a goodie basket.

Me? You told me to shut up. Politely, of course, or with general nods and comments and very vague advices that felt more like insults.

Your advice:

“If you said that, then I guess I’d also call you a failure.”

“I think it’s your fault.”

“Maybe you should just apologize.”

Of course, I must be doing something wrong then. If you were nice to her, and then you weren’t nice to me, it must be my fault. Must be.

So, instead of asking you directly, I went around and asked everyone else. They all told me the same thing. You were a great friend, an awesome person, super supportive, and if you were telling me those things it was my fault.

Yup. Armed with that knowledge, I went back in, trying to get in your good graces.

Nevertheless, it didn’t work. In the end, years of friendship and we hadn’t progressed past the point of small talk and things that made you happy.

I was direct. You loved passive-agressiveness.

Maybe I started it. With roasts, and all that. But they were always public, in front of others, usually directed with a joking manner.

You, however, slipped your bullets in during normal, private conversation, with subtle expressions and a mellow tone that conveyed nothing.

In addition, you liked to attack things that were sensitive, things that had nothing to do with the situation, or things that I had privately confided in you.

Wowie, that mascara is working! You look like you have eyebrows now!

I wish I had your confidence. You never dress like you care about your appearance.

You’re book-smart, but you don’t really have common sense, do you?

If only you were as good with computers as you were as good at math.

You’d make good money filming your family. They’d make a really good K-drama plot.

You’re doing so well to make yourself an unpopular person.

I love you, but I’m not your therapist, and sometimes I find your problems annoying.

Meanwhile, I would normally tell you that it hurt me. Your response would be to innocently ask what hurt me and magically forget the last five seconds of conversation.

When I tried to roast you back, you called me out with more sarcasm. When I spoke to others, this beast didn’t exist. I tried to fight back, it in the end, my dumb brain couldn’t think of anything else.

Besides, you didn’t like my directness when I told you that the dress you picked made you look like humpty dumpty or your taste in men was fairly toxic or that your mother was unfair for making you pursue a path in law when you hated law or that you shouldn’t seek so much advice from your family if you hated their advice and you hated them and everything they stood for. I was supposed to provide more neutral responses, but I didn’t know that, so I gave my best.

My best wasn’t what you liked to hear.

”I hated confrontation-and you thrived on it.

The best part was that your communication was only available when there were other people around to hear. And that it was always, “No, I-” and “You probably misunderstood-” and “I never-.”

It’s not that hard to say “sorry.” I know because I said that word after every single “conversation” we had, partly because of the audience and partly because I didn’t want to lose you.

Years of public speaking have taught me stage presence. On a stage, I am not me. I am an orator who speaks to motivate and preach. I do not use filler words, I smile and crack practiced jokes, I do not stop to think because I am reciting memorized filler.

But that is not me, the person, your friend. On a stage, I am not me, I am performing what I should be.

There’s something about confrontation that puts me in that same spotlight. That same bubble. Under confrontation, I freeze and say the things that sound pleasantly fake to the human ear, because that is who I am under confrontation.

No one.

Of course, you liked confrontation. I liked sit-down-and-peacefully-talk.

Naturally, you discovered that my apologizes were fake because I had lapsed into momentary speaker-panic: just apologize and move on. You found our sit-down-talks boring, you weren’t willing to participate, and I just could never make you understand that when you confronted me, often in public places, the words that I wanted to say wouldn’t come out.

“When you confront me,” I told you, “sometimes, I stutter. And, I go into this mode. It’s really hard for me to tell the truth. If you could just talk to me, privately, or not confront me in front of a whole crowd-”

“Maybe you’re just a liar.” You responded, pleasantly picking at your pesto.

No wonder you thought I was fake.

We weren’t compatible from the beginning.

I went to you because of my friendless status. That was selfish of me.

I was your charity case. That was selfish of you.

At first, I followed you everywhere like a lost puppy. Whether you wanted to go to a restaurant or get boba or go to library, I went with you. What you watched, I watched. I agreed with everything you agreed with and disliked everything you disliked.

But then, I started to develop my own opinions.

It was small things, like celery. Then it went to scores and standards and stocks. It went up to celebrities, couples, and dating standards. It even went up to careers. Even to family.

I defended what I liked. You did, too. And as long as I disagreed with you, the distance between us grew.

Every disagreement from me was met with a statement that proved how your opinion was better. Every disagreement from you had to be met with respect and care.

Honestly, it was exhausting.

I can’t be friends with someone who insults my parents.

Of course, I could never bring myself to throw away everything, even my personality, for a friend. My parents are immigrants from China. Your parents were born citizens. Maybe your mom was Chinese or Vietnamese, but you didn’t speak the language. Didn’t want to learn the language. While I embraced my culture, you hid it because you were ashamed. The only thing that you liked about either China or Vietnam was the food, as you told me.

The fact is, my parents could be strict. I myself argue with them every single day. And perhaps we were raised with different ideals, different standards, and different tastes.

But that doesn’t make it okay for you to make fun of my heritage, the people who gave up six figure salaries they earned with full scholarships for me and a better future for me.

It wasn’t okay for you to tell your family things I confided in you in privacy. Things that I begged you not to tell anyone about.

It wasn’t okay for you to tell me that learning to speak a language was useless.

It wasn’t okay for you to tell me that attending a cultural celebration was a waste of time.

Sometimes, I tried to tell you how it mattered. You always said the same thing.

“People have opinions.”

I agree. We can have opinions. But opinions aren’t making fun of the way my parents pronounce words, shaming me for celebrating cultural holidays, or asking me why I bother to learn a language when I’m bad at it.

Those opinions made it difficult for our friendship to continue.

Time

We grew apart.

My other friend likes to say I grew a spine and stopped being a pushover.

I like to say that we both developed a mutual interest in other things.

In the end, you were the one to refuse everything. I even wrote you a paper letter.

I don’t think you ever read it. And if you did, you didn’t care, much. I’d texted you to confirm whether you read it, and your response to was simply type: Yeah.

With time, I had grown from someone who you cared about, at least on the surface, to someone who you had grown tired of and cast aside. Like a stuffed animal, an old sock, even some kind of toothbrush.

But, it’s okay.

Because I don’t miss you at all, I tell myself. I don’t miss her at all, she was toxic, she was not for me, we grew apart-

Whatever it takes. Whatever it takes for me to pretend that everything is alright. Whatever it takes for me to get over you.

And we will never contact each other again, no matter who asks about me. You will tell them that I never reached out, and I will tell them that you were too busy to reach out, and we will pass each other if we meet again with hugs and smiles and perfection but the glint in our eyes will never, ever be the same shade of love and understanding and mutual respect.

Both of us can pretend for as long as it takes to maintain the impression that our friendship was never broken, shattered, or doomed in the first place.

Sincerely,

Your Former (never was) Friend