Unrequited
By Alana Lazarides
My childhood best friend
eloped over the weekend.
We haven’t spoken in years.
I only found out when
I got a text about it
from a friend
of a friend
of a friend.
I can’t bring myself
to look at the pictures.
To see if her eyes still sparkle
like they did back in middle school.
How her whole face would light up
when she’d lend me pre-read
young adult dystopian fiction novels
and favorite albums.
I clung to every word when
she explained the poetry
of “Back to December,”
as though she were lecturing
on the genius of Da Vinci,
the beauty of the Mona Lisa.
I didn’t even like Taylor Swift.
In seventh grade English class
she played “Phoenix”
by Fall Out Boy for me
through shared earbuds.
We had to sit close.
She said it felt like The Outsiders.
She was right.
“Stay gold.”
I watched her face
when she played violin.
The way she pursed her lips
when concentrating.
The way her eyes squinted
to see sheet music through
her thick, round glasses.
We all looked tragic in
our orchestra uniforms,
like nuns or the Amish.
But despite the cheap velour
and floor length skirts,
she was a model
walking the runway
as she climbed the steps
to the scuffed up
high school stage.
She was radiant.
We constantly complimented
each other, in the way
that teenage girls do.
I suppose,
that’s what complicated things.
Yet,
I can’t help but wonder
if when she said
“You have such pretty eyes,”
did she mean it the same way
I meant it
when I said it
back?