From BestFriend to ghosted

Author's Note

The characters and story in this book are works of fiction and are not based on true events or real people. However, every author draws inspiration from their own life trials and experiences, and I am no exception. While the narrative and characters are products of my imagination, they are undoubtedly influenced by the emotions and lessons I've encountered throughout my journey. It is my hope that through this fictional tale, readers may find echoes of their own struggles and triumphs, and perhaps a sense of connection and understanding.

CHAPTER ONE

The Self-Help Section

I walked into the small bookstore nestled between Madison and 93rd and found myself inexplicably drawn to the self-help section. As I weaved past the shelves, towards the ever looming 'Self Help' sign, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of embarrassment. Was I really the type of person who needed self-help books? Was I living out the scene from Sex and the City? Could I be Charlotte York secretly roaming around the self-help section? I glanced down at my feet and instead of seeing a pair of glamorous Jimmy Choo's, I was met with the sight of my scuffed and worn-out Nike’s. I let out a self-deprecating chuckle as I shook my head. Not quite the same shoes, but maybe that was just a metaphor for my less-than-perfect life. 

The interior of the bookstore was cozy, filled with warm lighting and shelves upon shelves of books. The walls were lined with wooden bookcases, which stretched up towards the ceiling. The distinct aroma of old books and freshly brewed coffee, and the sound of soft music in the background gave the store a cozy and welcoming vibe. The air was quiet, with only the occasional sound of pages being turned by a customer lost in their own world. The small space was packed with all sorts of genres, from romance to science fiction, but I make my way over to the self-help section, feeling a little embarrassed as I do so.  

This was a section that I rarely visit, but today something feels different. Maybe it's the universe trying to tell me something, or maybe it's just a whim. Either way, I find myself perusing the shelves, grabbing a book that catches my eye.

As I flipped through the pages of this book, the air around me buzzed with excitement. A crowd had gathered at the bookstore, their eyes bright with anticipation. Curiosity got the better of me. I placed the book back on its shelf, and quietly maneuvered my way around the bookshelves, to get a closer look at what was happening.

A group of bookstore employees were busy arranging rows of chairs, all facing a small stage. On the stage podium, the bold letters of a name drew my attention - "Presenting New York Times Best Selling Author Dr. Camille Blachard," it announced. It seemed that she was scheduled to read from her latest book at 1 pm. The sight of such a commotion surrounding this author intrigued me, and I felt an irresistible urge to learn more about her and her work.

I propped myself against the edge of a bookshelf, positioned close enough to the stage to catch every word, yet far enough to make a quick getaway if necessary. As I looked on with fascination, the once-empty seats were quickly filled by eager book enthusiasts. A display of Camille Blachard's latest novel stacked in pyramid form, caught my eye, and I couldn't resist snagging myself a copy.

As I’m flipping through the pages, two ladies had squeezed right passed me, and found their seats in the front row. Their excitement and anticipation were easily detectable, through their soft whispers, followed by moments of loud giggling. My nosiness took the best of me, as I allowed my ears to perk up, and eavesdrop on their conversation.

Eavesdropping wasn't my style; I tended to mind my own business, which was rendered evident by my heart uncontrollably pounding out of my chest. The rhythmic thumping was so loud that I felt compelled to quell the noise, fearing it might betray my undercover attempt to overhear the ladies' conversation. I swiftly drew in a large breath of air and held it in place, as if the act of holding my breath could somehow suppress the thunderous beats. It was as though my heart was threatening to escape, to land on the mutable brown dusty rug of the library and make a run for it. I imagined, my heart jumping from my chest, landing on its little legs, and pitter-pattering away from me. Today, however, felt different. A strange intuition urged me to listen, to pay attention to her words, as if some unseen force deemed it crucial for me to do so.

The woman sitting closest to me, ran her fingers gently across the book’s cover, tracing each word with a sigh.

“You have no idea how much this book has helped me.” She glanced over at her friend, while continuing to delicately trace the words of the book with the tips of her fingers.
“It has brought me so much clarity to how I have felt for years. He was everything to me. He was my best friend; He was my other half. Him and I were inseparable! I can’t believe he would do this to me. I can’t believe that he ghosted me. After everything we’ve been through...” Her voice trickled off into the distance, caught in the pain, in the memory.

Her friend reached her arm across the woman’s shoulder, pulling her in closer, comforting her “I know! Annie. I know the feeling.”

“After 20 years…” Annie confessed, her voice cracking at the last syllables.

 Her friend pulling her in closer, as both leaned their heads against the others.

Poor Annie. I thought to myself, my attention fixated on her facial expressions. Her cheeks held up high on her face, as she forced herself to smile. Her eyes darting back and forth between the stage, her friend, and the book. The motion of her lips quivering. I could tell she was holding back tears. The shimmer in her eyes from the tears attempting to escape spoke a familiar story to me, one that I knew all too well.

Annie swiftly wiped away an escaping tear and straightened herself up in her chair, noticing the bustling crowd maneuvering around her. All quickly finding their seats, while the hum of conversations and whispered stories floated softly through the air. I began to question my own experience, comparing it to Annie’s, wondering my place in the midst of it all. Did I belong, there amongst them? Peering down at the cover of the author's book, with the words written in bold letters, jumping out at me. I felt a tingle of anticipation run down my spine, as I read; "Ghosted but Not Alone"

Fate is a Fickle Mistress

“ To Fate, A fickle mistress whose sense of justice is exceeded only by her sense of humor.” – Teresa Mederios

“Fate has a sick sense of humor” I whispered to myself in disbelief. Out of all the bookstores in the city, I happened to stroll into the exact one, who’s author was reading their featured book on the very experience that has haunted me. Was this a sign? Pure coincidence? Or was it fate playing a twisted joke on me? Whatever it is, fate might as well have broadcasted it with a megaphone to the entire bookstore.

Ladies and gentlemen, gather 'round because here's the scoop for you: Seraphina Rose Sinclair, yes, that's right, was ghosted.

Here the thing, this wasn’t your typical ghosting. It wasn’t done by an ex-boyfriend, or any kind of romantic partner. It was in fact very platonic. She was my best friend.

“We would’ve hit thirteen years this month” I whispered to myself, “but who’s counting now?”

It's been two years since Sasha, and I last saw each other. She left me, disappeared, vanished into thin air. No note, no explanation, no real goodbye. I’ve reached out a million times, trying to get a reason, an answer. Something, anything that would bring closure. I have calculated and ran through millions of what ifs. What if I had done something so horrible to her to just leave without a word? What if it’s all my fault? Then why not tell me? Because she knows that if I knew what I did. I would apologize, and I would do everything I could to fix it. Our friendship meant so much to me. Why not give me the chance to fix things? Why not allow me to apologize?

I ran through every memory, combing through it meticulously like a crime-scene detective. Every day, I looked at the same evidence, and every day I tried to come up with different perspectives. I stepped into her shoes, attempted to read her mind and any possible thoughts she might have had. I recalled our conversations, attempting to decipher if she ever told me what I was doing wrong. Did I miss the signs? Did she express how she felt in any of our conversations?  

 Even if we don’t fix things, and didn’t remain friends, at least I would know why. At least I’d find closure. I must be the worst detective on the planet because every clue I had, has led me nowhere. She didn’t tell me how she felt, she never confronted me. In fact, I was the one in the relationship to confront her, and to bring up uncomfortable conversations. I was the fixer. I don’t know if it has to do with my zodiac sign in Virgo, but I can’t go on in life without answers, and without finding solutions to problems.

Sasha was the opposite of me. She hated confrontation, she ignored a lot of the problems in her life, and she chose to pretend that it doesn’t exist, so therefore there is no problem. She tended to run away from difficult conversations, and had a knack of disappearing, and ghosting. I’d be a liar if I said this was her very first time ghosting me, she had ghosted me many times throughout our friendship. Especially when I would call her out on her behaviors. But I learned to adjust, I learned to share my feelings with her in small doses. Enough so, that she wouldn’t vanish for months at a time.

I did love her deeply, maybe I still do. She brought out a side of me that made me feel like I could breathe again. Her impulsiveness made her fun and lively, and her nonchalant attitude added a layer of carefreeness to our friendship that I found refreshing. While, I was more reserved and cautious, always planning ahead and considering the consequences of every action. Sasha was loud and boisterous, and without her around I felt like there was no air to breathe.

One sunny afternoon, Sasha suggested an impromptu road trip without any preparation. She convinced me to drop everything and just go. We ended up driving for hours, laughing and singing along to the radio, only to realize we had no snacks, no extra clothes, and no idea where we were heading.

As we cruised down a winding country road, Sasha suddenly stopped the car and turned off onto a rough, gravel path. "What are you doing?" I remember asking, a mixture of excitement and apprehension in my voice. She just grinned and told me to trust her. We bounced along the uneven track until we reached a secluded, crystal-clear lake.

"Let's jump in!" she exclaimed, already stripping down to her underwear. I balked, listing off all the reasons why it was a terrible idea—no towels, no dry clothes, the water could be freezing, and there could be snakes. But Sasha's infectious enthusiasm wore me down, and after a few minutes of my persistent refusal, I caved in. We plunged into the cool water, laughing and splashing like carefree children.

It wasn't until we were shivering on the shore, clothes soaked and clinging to our bodies, that the reality of our situation hit us. We didn't have extra clothes, and we still had a long drive to wherever we were going. I, ever the problem-solver, suggested we drive back in our underwear, while I held our wet clothes out the window to dry in the breeze.

So there we were, two best friends in our underwear, me clutching our shirts and shorts out the window, hoping the air would blow them dry, while Sasha drove us to our secret destination, laughing the entire way. That day was quintessentially Sasha—a blend of spontaneity and chaos that left me both exasperated and exhilarated.

I missed that. I missed her.

Maybe it’s the Virgo in me talking, but it felt torturous when I’d bring up things that we could work on, and her immediate response was to ignore me for weeks to months at a time. She had a knack for coming back into my life, and never bringing up the reason why she left. She would vanish with enough time spend inbetween, that if I would bring up the past it would make me seem like I was holding on to a grudge or being petty. When I did bring up these problems up to her despite the time inbetween, she’d dismiss me a lot. She’d push it aside and say that I was being “too much”, “too needy”, “too clingy”. But not communicating issues really bothered me and left me with so many unanswered questions and I had built up a lot of resentment. I didn’t enjoy feeling resentful, but I also didn’t enjoy issues being ignored and piling up over time. My anxiety shoots through the roof every time issues go unresolved.

Therefore, there are a lot of things throughout our friendship, I didn’t bring up. I didn’t want to upset her, and I also dreaded her ghosting me. I’d do anything not to go months of her ignoring my texts, and calls. It was the worst time, and I felt such a sense of relief when she’d come back into my life.

Figuratively, I’ve been beating my head against a concrete wall, trying to get through, trying to find answers. I've meticulously replayed our countless conversations in my mind, dissecting them down to the smallest details, all in the quest for closure or any hint as to why she chose to leave me. Yet, every time, I've surfaced empty-handed.  

I have tried desperately to move on. I've gone out with friends, tried new hobbies, buried my head in work, but nothing seems to shake off this feeling of rejection. I’ve become stuck in this emotional limbo, unable to fully let go of the hurt and pain.

Ignoring my feelings hasn’t helped much either. I push them away like a pile of laundry that needs to be folded but it’s always there- unfolded- in a pile on the chair- in the corner of the room. A silent reminder of my dirty laundry.  A reminder that I’ve become the pile of clothes tossed to the side, forgotten, and abandoned. 

The pain that comes with being abandoned by someone I trusted and cared for deeply rips me apart every day. Like a part of me is missing, and I am walking around with a void that I can’t seem to fill.  It’s exhausting. I want to move on, I want to let go. But how can I when every corner of this city reminds me of her? When every happy memory we shared feels like a betrayal?

Others have assured me that the silence itself is the closure, and with time, the pain would naturally fade away. Little did I realize that it has been festering like a dark, hollow wound, infested with spiders relentlessly gnawing away at my insides. This silence has metamorphosed into my own version of hell, a Silent Hell- a torment so pathologically excruciating that the devil himself couldn’t torture me worse. To add to my torment, I absurdly persist in clinging to hope that the ache will dissolve in time. However, it never does.  Instead, hanging above my head is a pervasive dark cloud that shadows my every step, a constant reminder of the absence of closure, and how I am drowning in the silence.

I fear that I may be similar to a hopeless romantic, except I am a hopeless optimist. Even in the midst of my suffering, a ridiculous part of me still holds onto the hope that she will come back, that she would explain everything, and we could make things right again. It’s a fragile hope, one that I cling to like a lifeline, even when I feel it slipping away.

Which brings me here, this point in time, standing in this bookstore, trying to find a way to fix myself. It feels like a cliché, but I can't help but be drawn to the self-help section. I browse through the titles, feeling slightly embarrassed that I'm even here. But the more I look, the more I feel like maybe there's something in these books that can help me heal.

I pick up Camille Blachard’s book, hoping that it can help me find some answers. But as I flip through the pages, I can't seem to focus on the words. My mind keeps wandering back to the pain of being ghosted, and the feeling of not being good enough.