Sunday mornings had always been reserved for debrief sessions and hangover munchies; you would lay beside me, I would explain my most recent argument, you would twirl my braids and tell me that arguments mean I care. I remember when we wiggled our stresses out to “Sexy and I Know It” before our Stats final, walking into the lecture hall with our eyes still glistening. We used to be the duo who ran away with stolen musty beanbags. You used to be the friend who squeezed my shoulders when I made mistakes and begged me not to let go of my future.
I can’t pin-point when we adopted this awkward and uncomfortable dance. When was it last how it used to be, laughter filling the air as we tilted back in our chairs? I thought friendship wasn’t supposed to be this hard. I thought introducing more people and variables into our lives would make Sunday mornings more interesting. I didn’t think that this year you would become a new type of friend—the friend who pretends everything is fine, the friend I want to scream sense into, the friend I now see taking the same wrong path I have taken.
