And that’s exactly what I told her in the scorched-earth email I wrote her to make myself feel better. The one that is still sitting in my drafts folder because I am a mature person who decided to wait to send it, in case she properly grovels. If I do send it, she has Mr. Dennery to thank. He tasked the entire senior class with opening an email account to send letters to our future selves throughout remote learning. He wants us to keep a record of life in quarantine, so that this experience doesn’t just pass us by.

“You’re going to look back on this year one day and see how much it’s changed you,” he told us. “I want you to remind thirty-year-old you of everything that’s been happening.”

I’ve actually found the exercise therapeutic, so if I lose my nerve and don’t send the email to Parisa, I’ll send it to future me instead. That way, if my best friend never talks to me again, I’ll still have a record of what exactly went wrong and why none of it was my fault. And just to reassure myself of that fact, I grab my phone and reread her texts, so I can feel newly enraged, self-righteous, and motivated to finish my painting.

Sometimes I wish you would recognize your beauty privilege.

Therein lies the problem with having a writer as your best friend. Parisa has a rare talent for coming up with hurtful things to say—at a rapid pace I can barely keep up with. She’s the one drinking the poison, I decide. I am suddenly tempted to write back and say, What happened to us, P? We’re better than this. But I’m too afraid that she won’t write back, and then I’ll be the one stuck in friendship purgatory.

My phone vibrates, and my stomach immediately lurches with the hope that it’s her, calling to beg for my forgiveness. It’s not.

“Hey, Wes,” I whisper into the phone.

“Hey,” Wes replies. “Everything okay?”

“Yeah. I just don’t want to wake up my moms.”

Usually, we dive into conversation, but right now, there’s an immediate lull followed by the sound of Wes clearing his throat. I’ve noticed he does this lately when he’s about to say something he thinks is important.

“C’mon. What’s really wrong? You’ve been acting weird for a few days. Did you hate my Valentine’s Day gift—”

“No, of course not,” I’m quick to reassure him. “I loved your gift. I’m using it right now.” He bought me an artist’s palette with my name engraved on it.

“So then what is it?”

“Parisa hasn’t already said anything to you?”

“No,” he assures me.