In my notebook,

I wrote about you.

About everything,

I won’t reread it though.

I’ve forgotten it already.

That was three months ago.

You’re different, I know.

I wonder if you regret it.

You’ve talked to me,

said hi to my mom.

Asked how my brothers were.

In my notebook,

your name has a dedicated page.

Yes, it was written in pain,

yes, I was mad at you,

so mad.

But since then I’m not.

You’re in my math class now,

I was upset the first couple days.

But I see something different now.

You’re not so loud,

you’re more quiet, reserved.

Did I change you?

I’m not mad at you.

I’m not sorry,

but I’m not mad.

You’re a good person.

I wanted to update you,

without sounding like those people

who want their enemies to know their successes.

You’re not my enemy.

You’re just not my best friend anymore.

So dear Tori,

I have a date to homecoming.

I auditioned for that orchestra again,

they gave me the paper, I didn’t get in.

But I tried, that’s what matters.

It’s a little easier to talk to people.

Not easy, per se,

but it’ll never be that way.

I miss you.

I’m not sorry.

I’m not mad.

I miss you.

We had a backstory,

we had our friendship’s lore.

I’m sad.

I’m still lonely.

But I can’t be your best friend anymore.