You screamed your way into this world, just as you screamed your way into mine. I had thought—for a moment—how childish it was of you to let such a circumstance bring you to tears. Agony, the heat in your face, sizzling the salted summer tears as they glazed over the cuts in your thigh. You were reaching for the sky—you thought that you could fly—but with a subtle twist of holding on for a moment too long, your body bent backwards and, gliding across the coarse ground, you split open what was once a pristine palace of a body—arms raised in a furious attempt for salvation. But there was none. There was only I. And I was only a new friend. Is it wrong of me to judge thee for the instant reaction to such a gruesome playground encounter? Even in moments where I shared a similar pain of body misconfiguration or incisions into the canvas of my skin—I felt nothing but an eternal numbness. If I was screaming, it was in silence. If I was crying, it was nothing but a mirage of the desert. The suggested, expected response, perhaps. But the one in which I exist alongside in reality? Not at all. We were kindergarteners, overly obsessed with long walks and dangerous plants. The neighborhood playground was our refuge until it was overtaken by the fabric of naivety, and we were forced to seek shelter with the rattlesnakes and scorpions of the Wild West. The day our friendship was consecrated, however, was a jarring introduction into the lessons of loss and the pains of camaraderie. I had known nothing but the immediacy of family—that of my immediate family, and those that lived states apart. I was thrust into a world where love was to be said and shared—but felt? Gee. That type of independence was breaching on rebellion. After you had fallen from grace and screamed your way into my world, I scurried over to see what damage had been done. Being the softie that I am, I never had the courage to stomach blood. But I sat with you as you sat in misery, and we dusted the loose particles away from your lacerations so you could stand and dry your tears. A few limps later, and we were laughing again. I learned two important lessons that day: never hold on to something for longer than you are meant to, and love should be a choice.