I remember the moon that night. It hung low in the sky, a rich yellow so warm it was golden. A path light moon, Mum used to call it. She was superstitious about path light moons, always insisting they brought terrible things with them. I happen to think Mum is completely right to be superstitious about path light moons now, though that night I was only passingly aware.

“I know you’re upset with me, Rose,” he said.

“I’m not—”

“You are. We’ve been friends for long enough.”

Had we? We were childhood friends, certainly, but we hadn’t felt like friends recently. For at least the past year, Oscar had been far more Molly’s friend than mine. They spoke every day—often on the phone. They sat together at school games—and though I was usually with them, it was always on the outskirts. A couple of times, they’d even gone to see a movie or out on a coffee date without me.

“Why would you think I’m upset?” I asked him.

“You’ve been upset with me for months,” he declared. “I think you’re jealous I’m closer with Molly than with you.”

Not quite. Rather, I was unhappy with how much her friendship with Oscar seemed to be changing Molly, in a way that felt a lot like being left behind. Molly was growing less interested in having fun and breaking rules, and more preoccupied with filming herself and discussing online influencers I’d never heard of. My pride wouldn’t allow me to admit that, so, instead, I shrugged.

“I’m coming tonight,” he told me. “You and I are going to spend some time together, and we’re going to work through this weird tension. I’m not gonna let you go all ice queen on me, okay?”

“He didn’t want to come out that night,” I say out loud to Molly. “He did it because he thought he needed to appease me.”

He felt that way, because I had been diligently building a wall between him and me for months. I wasn’t giving him the silent treatment. It was more that there stopped being anything in me to give to him, other than resentment, or jealousy, or hurt. I didn’t want him near, chipping away at my friendship with Molly, or telling her that my lifestyle—our friends’ lifestyle—was toxic. For the life of me, though, I didn’t know how to tell him that without simmering over and bursting out with rage and pain. Hence, the wall.

“I know, Rose,” Molly says softly. “He told me that.”