Before I start I just want to say that it wasn’t ever my plan to hurt her. What I did isn’t the best thing in the sense that it was best for everyone; it was best for me. But hey, it worked out for the best (for everyone). She’s got a great husband, two beautiful kids, and I’m one of the top editors here at HarperCollins.
I met Elle after a really awful breakup in high school. She was new to our little town and ten times prettier than even the face that launched a thousand ships. It was hopeless until we got paired together for a project- she was a jock and I was a geek; she was flawless and I was endlessly awkward. I don’t know what it is that convinced her I was even worthy of her presence, but she ended up asking me to homecoming.
     We got along great for two people that were so different. She loved to play tennis, and she was good at it too. It was like an art, the way she played. I hated sports, but I loved watching her play. Every move she made was filled with this grace; it drew people to her.
     She ended up homecoming queen at the dance that was the beginning of any high school social life I can say I had. I mean, I was dating the queen! I was a shut-in up until that point in my senior year having gone to no dances and attending no clubs apart from our tiny GSA.

     I was in the yearbook, forever hiding behind my camera. Mr. Porter was the only reason I went to any school events. I ate in his class for lunch editing my pictures, working on stories for the writing fair months in advance, and reading for all three years before Elle showed up. Of course, I still did those things once she stepped into my life, I just found other time to do it.

     Her homophobic, overbearing, overprotective father even liked me. It was a new thing, being liked by people outside my parents and teachers, but I enjoyed it.
     We had a good run, despite being young and foolish. Before we learned that there is no room for secrets. We learned that telling someone about something, something they never thought they had to worry about losing you to, is like sand in your mouth and a brick in your stomach. It’s like finding out someone is cheating on you. You get disoriented and can’t stand, so you just curl up into yourself until your mom shows up and tells you to get it together, that you’re better than this. And you can believe her.
Elle never told me she got a scholarship to UCLA for tennis. I never told her about the internship for HarperCollins across the country, in New York. We talked about our lives after high school, each envisioning the other with us just in a different place, but neither one of us said it out loud until it was already decided. She wouldn’t have turned California down even if I had wanted to ask, so I didn’t. And when she found out about my writing she was surprised. I guess we didn’t know each other as well as we thought we did.
     I was staring at the stars on my best friend’s worn out trampoline that night, telling her everything that had happened. I was looking at this one star, and all the other stars faded almost as if out of existence. But, as I stared at it, that one went away too. I thought of love fading out and away, and I stopped mid-word and started crying. I knew I had to let her go. I couldn’t have her and go to New York, but I hadn’t come to terms with it until that moment. It was the hardest thing I had ever had to face at that point, but I made the decision that was best for both of us. Between the both of us, I chose me.
     What I learned from this, looking back on it now, is that everything is relative. This thing I did, the decision I was forced to make that seemed so earth-shattering at seventeen, now seems like any everyday choice I’m faced with. The choices you make before you leave the shelter of your mother don’t have the same impact as the choices you make when you’re on your own. Had I gone to UCLA with Elle, I’m sure I would have just ended up writing somewhere else; it’s in my blood. We probably wouldn’t have ended up married or anything like that, I just would have learned the importance of doing things for myself a lot later than I did.