Detached Concord.

How could I describe you with such simplistic words that would capture your precise essence, without degrading you, nor elevating you too high with too far of an exaggeration? I wanted to keep this realistic, but I fear my words would place you completely out of proportion to your true self. I'll try for it anyway, not ignoring your faults, of course, but certainly not focusing entirely on the most appealing of your character.

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You were possibly one of the friendliest people I've met, with a tinge of shyness that cast you aside from being fully welcomed. I too, was still fresh into this new world in which we both embarked in, but I guess you were more alone than I was, that day. Well, I welcomed you with melancholic smiles, encouraging you to even show your face... But your quiet voice hid away your true character, and attempted its best to paint you as secluded, outcast, and unbelonging. Never to worry though, for I happened to be able to hear past that soft but oh-so-cute voice of yours to hear your desires to simply be loved...

And love you, I did. We grew attached to each other, almost too attached that we were inseparable. In fact, I do remember enough to think that as you left me to travel halfway across the world for a while, I couldn't help but feel literally alone. Everyone else noticed too.

Anyway, I observed you as you eventually came out of that little shell of yours; an exuberant being surfaced, lively with a yet-to-be-spoiled sense of humour, easily amused, we could say. You were thoroughly enticing, and there was everything about you to be liked. I guess I adored you then, and it really was back then when I exalted all the good in you, perhaps overlooking your flaws, or perhaps simply too blinded by instant admiration to see you for who you were.

Not that you were a horrible person, of course. I still maintain that you are one of the friendliest, most affectionate people I know. Or are you? For I fear that you have me fooled enough to keep me hanging on to your intimacy so you're reminded that I could never love you less...

You, among the rest of the world, sought happyness, and you sought love. And like most... you find it, only to find you lose it.

Of course, you knew that I loved you endlessly, and I guess even though I didn't agree with you, all I wanted was for you to be happy... I didn't want you angry with me; one day of that seems almost already too much for me to bear for the remainder of our friendship. But when you find some sort of different love, and lose it... it's like expanding your heart. You stretched it so much just so you could fit this new love in, but by that time, they've waited too long for you to change for them. Suddenly you're not enough for them, and they've become too much for you to bear.

It's not your fault of course, but it's like this: the void in your heart can no longer be filled by my now seemingly pointless efforts of affection and ardour. I seem to fail in every aspect to try and comfort you, so much so that I've found you to be leaving my side more. You're growing, I know, and you're not mine. I can't have you, but can you look back, even just once and tell me how much (or how little..) I mean to you?

You've become sensitive... or maybe you have always been, now that I choose my words more carefully than ever when I'm around you. I cannot say something without fearing a reproachful response from you. You've become almost mute, too. I've realised that love doesn't almost blind, but love silences too. Maybe I'm overanalysing, but you've been silent for a long time now, and I'm beginning to mistake your independence for your ignorance. I'm sorry.

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... And now, I would just laugh dryly, pitying myself, for I know that you're doing so much better apart from me than I am apart from you. You're so unknowingly ignorant towards me... and because of that, I cannot help but to forgive you. How can I blame you for something you do not know?

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It's too bad that you break your heart to half it with a best friend... knowing that you'll never have it back.

LOL, Sarah.