There was something in the way the sun stroked down on us, as if its rays are trying to pierce our skins and make us bleed.

She stood slightly tilted; it was with an air of superiority. I knew it well. It was like she was a supermodel, in her pink bikini, her dark hair in a tightly woven braid slinking down her back. I, on the other hand, was all wet, covered in salty ocean water. My hair stuck to the sides of my neck and on the open of my back. My one piece clinging to every part of me that I spent hours in the mirror trying to erase from my memory.

And once again, my supposed “best friend” was outshining my gleam. Outdoing whatever good thing I felt about myself.

Her cat eyes squinted and she pursued her lips. “I can’t believe you,”

Believe me? Ha! It had been her all along, the one who had been slowly ruining things. Our once beautiful friendship slowly melting as we grew; as we turned 14, then 15, and before you know it, where we are. All the boys and self-acceptance, or lack there of, splitting our souls into two. She had changed. And so had I.

“You kissed my boyfriend?” she repeated in disbelief. I felt the waves licking at my ankles and the faint cries of little children making summer memories, taking pictures to add to the photo album. To look back on.

“No,” I repeated slowly, “he kissed me.”

“And why the hell would he want to kiss you?”

Each word hit like a bullet, straight to my heart. Each stung, like a million bees pricking my skin. I looked at her incredulously. Her lipstick, her foundation—sweltering under the intense heat—the eye shadow, the eyeliner, the mascara. She once had looked so pretty to me, someone I was proud to be seen with. Boys would turn their heads when we were together, and even though they didn’t even see me, it was nice to be around someone so breathtaking. Sometimes it made me feel breathtaking.

But now I looked at her and I saw someone not so confident. She wore all that unnecessary make up to cover up. Cover up. She was trying to conceal her insecurities. And as this moment unfolded, as our friendship took the last blow, it started to melt away.

“You are so clueless,” I spat.

“Obviously. I had no idea that my best friend was trying to steal my boyfriend,”

“I never tried to steal your boyfriend!”

She narrowed her eyes. “Oh come off it. Am I supposed to believe that the most popular guy at school wants you of all people?”

“What exactly does that mean? What, am I not good enough or something?”

She looked mock-sympathetic for a moment. “I don’t want to have to put it this way, but you’re not very pretty,”

I felt numb and looked down. I remembered the letter he gave me. He said I was beautiful, outside and inside, where it really counted. He told me that I was something special, so unlike her. The sweetness of what he said was so strong I could almost feel honey running down my back.

“He seems to think so,”

She snorted. “Okay. So when he was obviously stoned or drunk, before he…uh….supposedly “kissed” you, he said, “Oh Angela, you are sooooo pretty,” and then he stuck his tongue down your throat?”

Fire crept through my hands. I wanted to choke her. “First of all, this was before school, he wasn’t drunk or stoned, and he gave me a letter,”

She throws her arms up and laughs. “Oh! It gets better! He gave you a letter!”

“It’s in my bag if you want to read it.”

Her disbelief started to waver; her eyes looked out into the ocean. There’s a long moment of silence and I can hear strangers’ voices kiss my ears and fill my head.

“No.”

“No what?”

“No I don’t want to read it.”

“I’m so sorry.”

She turned to face me. “No you’re not. You’re overjoyed. You’ve always wanted whatever I had—my money, my beauty, my boyfriend. I know what you’re thinking; well, one out of three ain’t bad. What’d you do, Angela? Bribe him or something?”

I should have been angry. Livid, furious. But all I could feel was the warmth fade and a cool chill fill my bones. My eyes grew wet and I couldn’t decipher my tears from the ocean water.

“What happened to us?”

Her face softened and I felt her weaken beside me, but once again she hardened and she crossed her arms against her chest.

“Just leave me alone, Angela. Don’t talk to me. I was too good for you anyway. I mean, what’s it look like? Someone like me hanging out with someone like you?”

There were so many words I wanted to say. So many things I wanted to tell her. But they didn’t fit. I realized something in that moment; I didn’t need her company or friendship like I thought. I didn’t to be by her side to make myself feel like I was someone worth looking at. She had changed too much—more than I had.

I turned and started to walk away. I guess sometimes old friends are like old shoes that you loved the first time you got them, but as you get older, you outgrow them. And somehow the beautiful little heels and glimmering diamonds fade. You realize that those diamonds are just really cheap rhinestones and the heel was made of plastic. You can’t fit them anymore and they’re tacky. So you throw them out, in a black trash bag, with the rest of your old things.

Because you need room in your closet.