Your best friend from grade school gets married. You go to the wedding in your hometown only 30 minutes by train. She lives in the same apartment that you used to always knock on as an eight-year-old -- right after lunch at home, you'd both ride to school, always. You didn't know the meaning of best friends until you met her in second grade. When you get to her apartment almost 20 years later, when you knock on that same door, when you walk into her room and see her again, your heart breaks a little. Pieces.
You'd never been the type of girl to care for weddings. You'd never collected clippings or a Pinterest for wedding ideas. You'd never even dreamed about the big day when you're swept off of your feet. Then you see her, darling and dolled up. It reminded you the first time you met her. She had such a kind, pretty face.
You hung out all the time as kids. You secretly took pride in the fact that you were the two prettiest girls in class, or so you thought. Well, maybe you have your off days, but she was, had always been, and on this day, the most beautiful. On the day before you left for America, you spent a whole afternoon with her trekking across Nankai, your stomping ground. You don't even remember what you'd talked about, but it was like being outside yourself, watching two little girls standing tall, grabbing onto each other and already worlds apart.
You wrote letters. You wrote letters and you wrote letters. Letters were precious those days, and hearing from her always felt like a tug from a parallel universe. You lived your life. She lived her life.
In a way, being apart kept you together.
