You have forgotten how to be my friend on most days. There are momentary glimpses of recollection, when you suddenly decide to ring me and ask me over because a special dish is being served at your table. But most times, those incidental, easily forgotten instances in between birthdays, Christmases and deaths, you no longer remember.
I thought it was just me at first until I realised that you have been doing this a lot of late. And by that I mean the last few years. I am not the only old friend you have chosen to keep in storage, drawn out only on special occasions.
You choose instead to flit from one new acquaintance to another, treating them like they have been there all along and understand you and your history. They don't. And that's the truth.
Because no matter how hard they try, they don't know what it was like watching a part of you curl up in a ball deep inside your being in retreat and grief, daring to rear its head only around Christmas. They don't know what it was like to understand your fear of failing when it seemed as if you were.
But then it would seem you have also forgotten what that felt like. You hold your head high now. You don't remember the days when you barely had enough to pay for your next meal. Or maybe you do, but you choose not to treat it with respect, and instead run away from it in fear of it infecting your future.
The only problem is, it's already there.
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