Dear Delilah,
My name is Ryen Trevarrow. We were friends in fourth grade.
Iâm sure you donât even remember me, but I remember you. In fact, you cross my mind quite a lot. And if you do remember me, then please keep reading, because there are a lot of things Iâd like to say.
Youâre under no obligation to listen, but I would be grateful.
By now, Iâm sure your lifeâlike mineâhas changed a lot. Your memories of meâif you have anyâcould range from resentful to so ambiguous that I barely register on your radar anymore. Maybe you havenât thought about me in years.
But just in caseâ¦I needed to do this. Maybe for you but especially for me. I have a lot of guilt, and I deserve it, but there are things that need to be said, and itâs long past time.
You see, the image is still in my head. You standing against the wall on the playground, alone because I wouldnât be your friend any more. I canât imagine what you were thinking that day and every day after, but I hope you know that what I did and what everyone else said or put you through was never your fault. It was mine, and you were simply there.
Thereâs a secret I want to share with you. I havenât even told my best friend, Misha, because it was so embarrassing.
When I was nine I had a routine every Sunday night. At about six oâclock, after dinner, I would start to gather all of my hygiene products: shampoo, conditioner, soap, loofah, clippers, nail file⦠Iâd line up everything on the window sill above the bathtub, and for the next hour, Iâd bathe.
Thatâs right. I was in the bathroom, cleaning, scrubbing, and making sure every damn piece of hair smelled like a lily-scented brook in a mountain meadow for an hour. Then Iâd finally emerge and begin the moisturizing and nail cleaning process.
Good grief, right? But wait, thereâs more.
Then I spent ten minutes flossing and brushing, and even more time picking out my clothes, which of course had to be ironed and laid out for Monday morning. It was a new week, and it was a new me. I was going to have more friends. I was going to be with the popular girls. People would like me.
Because in my nine-year-old head, the bath washed away more than the daily grime. It washed away the old me, and somehow, because I polished up my appearance, my personality would magically be different, too.
This went on for about a year. More than fifty Sundays of high hopes, and more than fifty Mondays ending with not a damn thing different than it was the previous week. No amount of soap and water, perfect nails, or pretty hair could change what I hated about myself on the inside.
That I was timid. That I was uptight and never broke rules. That I felt so uncomfortable in large groups and couldnât talk easily with people. That my music and movie choices werenât like the average kid.
Plain and simple: I didnât fit in.
I had nothing in common with other kids around me and being limited to my small environment, I couldnât find anyone I did have things in common with. I constantly felt like I didnât belong. Like I was crashing a party and people were just waiting for me to get the hint and leave.
That was until I met you. We started hanging out and talked about everything. Every day at recess, weâd walk around the perimeter of the field and chat about stuff we had in common. You were kind and funny, you listened to me and didnât make me feel pressured or awkward. I was glad to finally have a friend.
Until I started wondering why I didnât have more.
Weâd keep walking and talking, but sooner or later, my eyes would drift over to where everyone else was playing and laughing, and Iâd start to feel left out again. What made them so special to be crowded with people? Why did they seem happier and a part of something better? What were they doing and how were they behaving that I wasnât?
I came to the conclusion that I needed to see myself as better before I could be better. And by better, I mean popular. In putting myself on a pedestal with whatever nasty behavior I could, I believed I was elevating myself. And in a way, I guess I was. Being mean got those friends I thought I wanted.
Now, thereâs nothing I can say that makes what I did to you alright. I know that. Even a kid knows how to be nice. But I wanted you to know that Iâm sorry. I was wrong, and I regret what I did. It was the first act in a long line of acts that made me a very unhappy girl, and I see now how valuable one good friend truly is and how little those popular kids actually mean in the big, wide world.
I canât change the past, but I will do better in the future.
Iâm sorry if I bothered you. If youâre reading this and wondering why I dwelled on something that was perhaps so insignificant to you. Maybe youâre surrounded by a great life and tons of happiness, and Iâm not even a memory.
But if I hurt you, Iâm sorry. I want you to know that.
You were a good friend, and you deserved better. Thank you for being there for me when I needed you. I wish Iâd done the same.
Love,
Ryen