Disclaimer: What I write fills my heart, not my wallet.
A/N: I don't have a specific episode in mind for the setting or timing of this story, but it is somewhere in the vicinity of Season 2, Episodes 11-12.
The Promises You Make
I don't know what I'm doing here. I don't know how I got here in the first place, and now that I'm here, on your front steps, I don't know what to say. I won't say I'm sorry; you've heard so many apologies from me after all these years that I'm sure that most of them don't register. You deserve so much more from me than those two words could ever give you. But what else can I say to you?
I can't meet your gaze anymore. Your face and voice still smile like they used to, but your eyes are waves, rising ever higher and dragging you away from me, and I can't help but feel that when I look at you, I'm actually watching you drown. And I'm letting it happen because it's my fault and I'm too guilty to save you. Or maybe I'm the one who's drowning, and you have been trying to rescue me for so long that you exhausted yourself and started sinking with me. All I know is that I made a promise to you once, while I was squatting over you, carefully cleaning the gravel off your skinned knees, and I shouldn't have, because I promised you more than I could ever actually give you. We were eight, you were sobbing and in so much pain from your fall from the monkey bars … I never wanted to see you hurt like that again, so I promised you that you wouldn't, that I would take care of you so you would never hurt again. Sometimes the promises you make when you are eight are the hardest ones to keep. I couldn't keep it. I tried, but when you are eight and scared and in love with your eight and scared best friend, you will promise anything to make her feel better, to keep the tears at bay for a little while longer.
Can I ask you something instead? Can I ask you if you're happy? Can I ask you if you love him like you love me, so much so that he leaves you breathless and aching when he walks away? Can I ask you if you're okay, if we're okay? Do you tell him your secrets now? Can I tell you one? I used to tell you all my secrets. Do you remember that big box I keep under my bed, B? The one I never let you look in? You've never seen the inside of that box, but you already know everything I have in it. Everything you ever gave me is in that box—every birthday, anniversary, get well, sympathy, Valentine's Day, Halloween, Christmas, Because It's Monday, Because I Missed You, Because You Were Extra Grumpy card, every birthday, Christmas, and unbirthday present, the friendship bracelets, the pictures you colored, everything.
Sometimes, I pull that box out and empty it on my bed. I look at it all again, reread all the notes we passed back and forth and all the cards. I pore over everything, our whole history spread across my bed. Our history. I knew we would always have a past, but it never occurred to me that it might also be a history, something finite. I never thought I could have anything with you that ever really ended. I've been planning my life for years, and I worked so hard to achieve all those things I wanted. I've got everything I planned for and none of it matters because you aren't part of it anymore. It scares me, you know? It scares me to see how so many of the things in our box have faded and worn out already. We're fading, B. We're disappearing, and I don't know how to stop it.
I know you have a collection, too. I know you have a bulletin board covered with pictures of us, and I know that you have a cupboard filled with every blanket we ever shared; from summer camp to Cheerios camp to every sleepover, you still have everything that ever kept us warm. Including my love. I hope you know you still have that, that my heart isn't mine to give again because I never asked you for it back.
There are all kinds of memories of you, moments we shared, that I have to find other ways to keep, things like the first time I realized I loved you, the feel of your breath on my ear, our first kiss, our first time making love, the way our hands fit together, the kindness of your eyes and the vastness of your heart (I could get lost in it, Britt. I know I could). I've had nothing but time on my hands since you starting dating Artie, and I've had nothing to do with it but think of you. I think I found a way I could share my memories with you again, at least, until we're okay enough to share them like we used to. On little slips of paper, I wrote down all the things I love about you. At first, I thought I was writing the reasons I missed you, but it didn't take me long to figure out that missing you and loving you were one and the same. I wrote until my hand hurt, shook it out, and kept writing. Every night for the last six weeks, I've been writing, and every morning, I wake up, wearing the same wrinkled clothes from the day before, surrounded by my love for you, scattered across my room. Waking up that way has given me a reason to smile again. I have new reasons every single day, every time I see you, every time I close my eyes. These are the first six boxes, one for every week I missed you. I'm still writing, and I will bring you a box every time I fill it.
I'm still not brave enough to say any of these things to you, but until I am, I'll keep wearing your charm bracelet and BFF necklace. I'll bring you boxes, and maybe someday, I will be able to touch you again without wondering if I'll hurt us both. Our necklaces say "Forever", B, and that has to be longer than what we're going through right now, even if it doesn't feel like it could be. Forever isn't enough for me to heal all the places you're hurting, but I'm going to keep trying because I want to make good on my promise to you. Because sometimes when you're seventeen and scared and in love with your seventeen and scared best friend, the promises that you made when you were eight are the only ones that matter.