You told yourself that you were going to write something happy for once. Guess it wasn’t meant to turn out that way. Somehow, as you made the resolve to talk about something beautiful, life decided for you. It decided that no, you would not talk about beauty, wonder, or the majesty of fantastic belief.

You would talk about pain. The kind of pain that you know you’re feeling, but can’t quite put your finger on. The invisible heart-ache. The numbing sting of loss.

No, you didn’t lose anything important. Just an opportunity, and you’ve lost dozens of those before. It’s nothing new. These angels, and the demons they turn into, are regular occurrences in the life of an idealist. A poet running through a darkened tunnel, looking for the way out. You realize that you are depressed, and it bothers you. You just attended a Bible Study about depression: why are you so down? Shouldn’t you be encouraged? Maybe you were depressed before you listened to the talk, and you only realized it as the people around you gave examples as if from your own life. Overthinking? That leads to depression? Oh . . . you realize that you overthink a lot. Telling yourself that you’ll never be good enough? That leads to depression? Oh . . . you realize you tell yourself this all the time. Loneliness? Well, yeah, you’re lonely.

Of course you’re lonely. Everyone is lonely. What you need is someone to lean on. Someone who you can trust completely, and at the same time not feel weak around when you need to be weak. When you need to cry so hard your heart feels like it will burst. What was that line you read today in that girl’s poem? “Like my heart is pouring out of my mouth.” You want to pour it all out, but as you think of your friends, you realize that some of them, if you tell them, will only make you feel more depressed. Others will make you feel weak. Others have leaned on you so heavily, you feel that to lean on them would be too much, even if they think they can handle it. Others will make your problems feel trivial – make you feel trivial. Where is that one friend? The one who will listen, and listening, make you feel like you matter. Like you’re actually important, and not someone to chuck empty phrases at. You’re so tired of “I’ll listen” and “Please tell me what’s wrong!” It doesn’t help. It makes you more lonely, like you’re some sort of little beast that needs to translate its heart-ache into their language. Can’t they tell already? If they can’t . . . are they really your friends? When you tell them, you feel like you just poured black bile into your own chest. No, that did not help.

No, you don’t need friends. You need time alone. You need to learn to enjoy the loneliness of this fading existence, because you will never find someone to lean on and whisper all your heartache to.

There, see, you’re being depressed. Words like ‘never’ and ‘loneliness’ riddling your writing. You need to stop being depressed.

“Just one more thing” the heartache whispers.

You see, you are hurting because friendships are so hard. It goes like this: you liked a guy in your Youth Group, but then his friends pushed you away, and he proved his pettiness by blaming you. A long while later you began to like another guy, but you realized that you were too far beneath him. He never looked your way and he never would. He left, and you haven’t seen him since. You still think about him – pray for him – but you know he never thinks about you.

Don’t flatter yourself.

Then, recently, you liked a different guy. He was interesting, funny – though quiet – and he had a real smile. At first, you thought he liked you too. He came and sat by you and you two talked about art as you scribbled sketches on random pieces of paper. He drew something very strange – even he didn’t know what it was – and you told him a story inspired by that picture. He laughed sheepishly, and after that he drifted away. Tonight you saw him getting another girls’ number and talking to her . . . sitting by her.

With a scowl you shake your head as your fingers pound the keys like pistons. This should NOT be making you as sad and hurt as it is. But somehow it is. Somehow it hurts to keep trying to make friends with people who aren’t the same all the time. Your family and friends continually tell you to make friends with people in real life. You try, and when you try, you do not succeed. These people, they . . . they don’t want a real friend. They shy away from you as if you were some form of detested monster. As if you would kill them with a mere glance. Why are they afraid? Why do they talk to that new girl and your little sister like old friends, when they wouldn’t – and still won’t – come within two yards of you?

What have you done?

What are you?

. . .

What are you?

Monster.

Enough, no more, this has gone too far. You will not wallow in self-pity.

You have a friend.

You have someone who will listen.

Who will understand.

Who will never interrupt.

Who won’t come up with STUPID suggestions and solutions.

Who’ll just be there.

This person’s name?

Page.

Thank you, Page, for listening to me.

I feel better already.