I remember when I first met you, there was a spark. I loved you, and though you didn't swing that way (your being gay and I being female) I wanted, above anything else, to be your friend. Over the span of three weeks, we ditched the "getting-to-know-you stage," as you phrased it, and I told you everything. I needed to tell someone everything, and I never realized that you didn't tell me anything of your own. Friendships, like all relationships, must be give-and-take. Rather, it was give-and-be-taken-from. But I didn't care... I needed to have someone know. And you listened to my depression and my problems and gave advice that was logical rather than what I wanted to hear, and I loved it. And we went to parties—my first, actually—and danced and held hands and I pretended. When I broke down on your shoulder at one in the morning you asked if you should come over, you offered to be there when my leg had been bleeding for an hour. But now it's gone. After four weeks of pure bliss, something went wrong. I don't tell you things, because you ignore me. I get along better with your friends than I do with you. And I hate it and I cry myself to sleep over it. Because I need you, not only to cry on, but as a friend. As a stable rock to lean on.
And you're gone now, like I will be soon.