He’s my best friend. Always has been. I knew it since the first day we met. We clicked instantly. In the same way she clicked with him. She’s his best friend. They talk every day and night, constantly texting each other. She makes him happy. She is pretty too. Shoulder length brown hair with red highlights. A sweet dimple. Big eyes. A perfect figure. Only, she lives a thousand miles away, in a faraway place, living her own life.
And I’m jealous. She wears short skirts-the kind I’ll never get to wear in a million lifetimes. So many people like her, follow her. I almost hate her now.
I keep looking up her Facebook profile every now and then. It’s like an addiction, even worse than checking up my latest crush’s profile. She likes all of my favourite quotes, stuff that I like. If I say anything about it, he’ll think I’m jealous. And I don’t want him to think that I’m jealous. Even if I am. She (I’m returning to her now.) has got more than a thousand followers. Me? I’ve got…nil, that many.
There’s a knock at the door. Before I can say anything, it opens slowly. It’s him. He’s crying. Hastily, I close Facebook and hand him a box of Kleenex. We’re best friends like that. We know each other perfectly well to know when someone requires a shoulder, or Kleenex.
In between sniffs and sobs and concerned pats, he tells me the whole thing. He’s held it up all along. Now he can’t bear it. He needs to tell someone. Of course he does.
She’s got a tumour. Where- I don’t know. Cancerous or not- I have no idea. But she has one. She was molested. She’s serious. She’s had surgery once, in another country. She was fine. Things went downhill. Another surgery. Critical. She may not survive. She’s going to die.
He has cried himself to sleep. I’m sitting next to him. I was jealous. For the sake of God, I was jealous of her. She makes him happy. She’s got a tumour. She’s pretty too. She may not live to see her grandchildren play.
And I was jealous of her.