Creative Nonfiction by Saturn

A few months ago, I was in one of those precarious on-the-edge-of-a-knife situations with my best friend where you’re not entirely sure where you stand or where to go. I felt wronged by things that didn’t happen because I tend to turn emotion into memory, and she felt wronged by aspects of my personality that at the time, I wasn’t sure how to change.

My best friend was lovely. Like the sun given form and body and being. And she made me feel like one of those planets, warmed and comforted in a way that I had never felt before. I won’t say that I was, or am, in love with her, but that’s the best way to describe it. I wanted to spend every moment with her and perhaps that is unhealthy or unwanted, but I hadn’t known that at the time and she acted and felt the same, so I didn’t think to change.

We were, and are, planning to go to different colleges on either side of the country (her West coast, me East) and so I knew that yes, I would eventually have to give her up, or else substitute our weekly coffees with Facetimes or Skypes, but I thought that I would get the four years of high school with her and the summer before we both left, for the two of us.

I feel that I must point out that we’ve never kissed. Neither of us are the type to kiss our friends “just to see” and we never spoke of it. I am not sure if she ever thought of it, but I’ve had many crushes and many loves throughout our friendship and so if she had, she probably never seriously considered it.

I’ve written eleven poems for her. More than any of my romantic loves; more than I’ve written for anyone else combined, I’m sure. I tend to write about arbitrary things rather than people, but she was the one I felt comfortable writing about and to. She’s never seen or read any of them and perhaps that’s where I went wrong. Maybe showing her the way in which I loved her would have helped.

I also feel the need to point out that while I do miss her and our friendship, having time apart has opened my eyes and stripped me of my rose-colored glasses. We were not healthy, and while I wish that we were, wishing does not turn back time or heal wounds.

 So let me set the scene of the ending of a love. We were both sophomores, and while we aren’t anymore, it oftentimes feels like we still are. It was a few weeks before our final exams and perhaps the stress and weight of taking college classes early got to the both of us, but we had both been volatile to one another. This had happened before and so I assumed that it would pass, and we would apologize or otherwise pretend it had never happened. But I guess after enough bitter remarks and questioning everything that the other said from both sides wears on a person.

I am a jealous person. I know this now, and I’d like to think that I knew it then; I am deeply possessive of the people around me. “Me and mine” as I like to say. It’s safe to say that I considered her one of my many loves, and with that comes my jealousy. I’d be upset when she hung out with other people, especially when it happened to be activities we said we’d do together. Showing other people ‘our’ coffee shop, going to a movie we had talked about with someone else, etcetera. You get the picture – this is one of the many things that tore us apart. Ripped the seams where our lives had lined up. I was too jealous; she didn’t, or couldn’t, care enough.

While she was light given form; an angel upon this earth that I was lucky enough to briefly touch, she was not without her own faults. All angels fall after all. She had to fall to end up here. She was not able to provide me with the support I needed: at the time, I had thought that no one could. It’s been a year however and I can easily and truthfully say that this is incorrect. I have new me and mine, and they provide me with a sort of love and light I had never thought possible.

I have highs and lows. The highs, brief and bright, create a light that guides my feet on the path of my life–stars maybe. The contrary–those lows–I lash out. I rot and suffer and spread that suffering to those around me. During those lows, I need someone to reach out; I’ve been told that it’s easy to see when I need that. I stop replying, I’m asleep more often than not, my grades start to slip. That’s what depression does. That’s what depression is. It is numb and cold, the dark side of the moon.

She didn’t know how to do that; or more likely, didn’t want to. She has always had an issue with following through, and with me it was no different. Plans, schoolwork, savings, and then love. Two years of friendship wasn’t enough to convince her to stay. We both had issues. The difference, unfortunately, is that I was able to communicate my needs– she wasn’t. Miscommunication, or no communication at all, leads to ripped seams and broken hearts. She let her anger with me consume her; I was none the wiser that she was at all upset.

So, I suppose my poetry will sit dusty in their docs and my memories will continue to be a little too sharp for me to ever share outside of this essay. I see her in the hallways and in the common spaces, but I don’t think I’ll ever talk to her again. We hurt each other too much; we are both too stubborn to ever apologize. She will fly West, and I will stay where I am: stagnant and wingless.

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Saturn is a queer and trans writer. Their work explores themes of identity, loss, and belonging, often drawing from  personal experiences. With a passion for essays, poetry, and fiction, they seek to connect with readers through raw and honest storytelling. Though still early in their writing journey, Saturn is eager to share their voice and perspective with the world. Their work has been featured in local literary journals, and they are currently pursuing further opportunities to expand their craft.