Dear Leila,                                           March 30, 1997
    I’m sorry that you couldn’t forgive me. I’m sorry that I couldn’t forgive you. God, this is all so screwed up. It just… Nothing was supposed to be like this. But what you were doing, what you did to me? It was wrong. I’m sorry. You were in a bad place and you took it out on me, and I was scared. But the fact of the matter is I’m now here and you’re... You’re God knows where. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
Love, Emma

Dear Leila,                                             January 11th, 1997
    Apparently, the police didn’t find me until two hours after you left. I was cold and sick and delirious. And I was alone.
    They said it’s been a month, but it feels like less. Wasn’t it last week that we spent all day at the beach, determined to get a perfect tan for the upcoming school year but left with matching sunburns instead? Wasn’t it last weekend that we had an all-day Friends marathon and cried shamelessly when Chandler and Monica got engaged? And wasn’t it just yesterday that we went out for ice cream and circled around the mall a thousand times, doing everything we could to distract ourselves from recent breakups?
Everyone keeps telling me I’m confused, and I’m only supposed to write down things I remember for certain. But, Leila, I can’t remember anything but happiness from our friendship. They assure me that we had a fight, that you’ve left me for good. But what happened? How did we get here?
Love, Emma

Dear Leila,                                                   March 23, 1997
     The doctors told me I can leave soon, tomorrow, in fact. They’re positive that I remember everything, that I’m not confused anymore. I guess I know it all now, though sometimes I wish I didn’t.
    How could you do this to me? I thought we were supposed to be best friends. You betrayed me in the worst way, and I had to pay for it. I trusted you, Leila, and you ruined me. I had to celebrate my birthday in here a few days ago. The nurses joked that they couldn’t believe I’m an adult now. They had the kitchen staff make me a beautiful cake, but of course candles weren’t allowed for fear of pyromaniacs getting out of control.
    You don’t care about any of this, though. I used to think you did. But you never cared about me at all, did you? Only yourself. Still I miss you, and I miss our friendship. And for that, I hate us both.
Emma

Dear Leila,                                        January 20, 1997
    I’m still very confused. What the hell happened with us? Why did you leave?
    I hate the hospital. Ever since I watched the life drain out of my Nana week by week, I have despised hospitals. The smell and the sympathy and the sorrow... Sometimes it’s too much to handle. They’re holding me hostage in this damn psych ward. My family came to visit yesterday. I guess they’ve been coming every weekend for the past month, but this is the first time I’ve been lucid. My mom cried the whole time, and my dad just seemed disgusted with me. I still don’t know what I did, all I know is I miss you. I wish you would come and see me.
Everything was incredibly formal yesterday, save for my mom’s relentless sobbing. They entered around noon, exchanging formalities and engaging in friendly chatter with the hospital staff. As soon as they saw me, however, my mom blanched and my dad froze, a deer caught in the headlights. It was as if they’d seen a ghost. I didn’t receive any hugs, no “I’m so glad you’re okay” type speech. My mom burst in tears, drawing the eye of every single doctor, nurse, and patient in the room. My dad just glared at me, but that isn’t anything out of the norm.
Once my mom calmed down enough to form coherent sentences, she just droned on and on. She told me all about her friend's newborn, about some new movie I just had to see, about my brother’s new girlfriend, and my dad’s promotion at work. My dad didn’t open his mouth once, and his eyes looked at everything but me. In the split second my mom stopped to catch her breath, I managed to ask my parents about you, but they didn’t quite deliver the answer I wanted. In fact, my mom began crying again, harder than before (a feat I thought to be impossible), black streaks streaming down her face. Out of nowhere my dad screamed at me to “Shut the f*** up.” God, whatever happened must be bad. Not that I would know though, seeing how no one will tell me anything.
Love, Emma

Dear Leila,                                           March 20, 1997   

 My birthday is coming up soon, can you believe it? I remember how jealous I used to get because you’re a whole month earlier than me, the most trivial issue in the world. We were going to get tattoos this year. Finally, we were going to be adults and we could leave and get an apartment together and be happy. Our dads would have no control over us anymore, we were going to be free.
    And now I’m a prisoner. You’re off gallivanting with God knows who, doing God knows what. Or maybe you’re dead now, who knows? Maybe you’re off leading a really successful life, the kind of life I should have. I wanted to be a veterinarian, anxiously awaiting a reply from Cornell. I don’t even need to get mail now to know my chances are slim to none. I had such a good future, everything laid out perfectly on a red carpet. I’d be lucky to get into a community college at this rate. You ripped everything away from me.
I shouldn’t be here Leila. This isn’t fair. I’m trapped and this is your fault. And I will never, never forgive you for this. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I despise you. You once asked me what the worst thing that ever happened to me is. I probably said my dog dying, or Dan breaking up with me. But I was wrong. The worst thing that’s ever happened to me? You.
Emma

Dear Leila,                                        February 1, 1997
My doctor, who insists that I call her Alexis, said I made “excellent progress today.” She’s very proud of me, or so she says. You see, I started to remember today. It started snowing, and something about the beautiful snowflakes drifting down and landing on the windowpane jolted my memory. And I remembered.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t us fighting, but the lead-up (or so I’m told). It was just before Christmas, and absolutely freezing. We were at Jeremy’s party, and you were joking about hoping to catch him under the mistletoe. But of course, that never happened. You know I liked Jeremy, and I know you wouldn’t do that to me.
It was hot inside the house. I don’t remember who was there, but I can’t figure out if that’s due to my recent memory lapses or the fact that all the people who were there seemed to be one person to me. In busy environments, faces, voices, and bodies all seem to blend into one mess of smeared makeup and battle scars, light-hearted laughter and angry shouts, dresses hanging loosely or stretched tightly over slim and fat frames until I can’t differentiate between them. You could tell I was getting dizzy, so we went for a walk.
Jeremy’s family is loaded, so all the houses in the neighborhood were adorned with the most breath-taking Christmas lights I’d ever seen. Ever since we were kids I preferred the plain twinkle-lights, but you were drawn to the bright colors and inflatable reindeer. But not that night. I remember me, completely out of my element murmuring something along the lines of “Look how beautiful” and gesturing toward the lights. And I remember you. We had been passing a bottle of red wine between us as we walked, and as soon as the words left my mouth you smashed it off the ground. Screaming in rage or pain, I can’t decipher which, you lashed out on the giant blow-up “Frosty the Snowman” standing next to us. I simply watched. I didn’t help you, nor did I try to stop you. And that’s it. That’s where my memory fades out yet again.
Love, Emma

Dear Leila,                                              March 11, 1997
I don’t know what to write anymore. Each day I seem to be flooded with new memories. I’m no longer blinded by my utter adoration for our friendship, the same adoration I thought you shared. Actually, the more I think about it, the more toxic our friendship appears to be. You were controlling, oppressive, manipulative, abusive. But I suppose I’m to blame as well. You, at the very least, knew exactly what you were doing. I subconsciously allowed myself to be controlled, oppressed, manipulated, and abused.
I’ve started to recall all the worse parts of our friendship. Like that time when we couldn’t have been more than eight and you screamed at me for spilling nail polish. Or when I was short five dollars buying some stupid dress, and you offered to spot me a few dollars then forced me to compensate you by being your slave for two weeks. Or the time when you reduced me to tears in front of the entire class for not “pulling my weight” on some bullshit group project. I could never be better than you, you made sure of it. I got a 95% on a test, you got a 100% and boasted for days. I got one goal in soccer, you scored 4 and made sure everyone knew it.
You could never let me shine, could you? Did I not deserve it? Maybe I didn’t, who knows. Especially if I’ve I always been so God damn weak. I mean, no wonder you got away with what you did. You repulse me.
Emma

Dear Leila,                                               February 10, 1997
    It’s been almost two months already. Before now, I think the longest we ever went without talking is a fortnight, if that. Do you remember that summer? Your parents took you to Europe for two whole weeks. I was heartbroken, and we both begged our parents to buy an extra ticket so I could go, too. Of course, that trip was your parents' way to soften the announcement of their divorce, so in the end I wasn’t so envious after all. We must’ve been sixteen, and the day you left I cried for hours. But you, being the amazing friend you are, sent me postcards and emails filled with messages about all the different places and people. You promised to save up and take us both this summer, but seeing as I don’t know where you are now, I’m not sure about the likelihood of that happening.
    It’s so weird, how much things have changed in the past two years. After the divorce you grew angry. Everyone else saw you as bitter, some sort of heartless girl who thought she was above the world. Only I saw the real tragedy in you. The day your dad moved across the country, leaving your mom and you to scrounge around, looking for just enough money for a s***ty apartment. You got addicted, it seems, to sneaking around. You began cheating on more than just board games. You were growing up, wild and reckless to distract yourself from the blame of your parents divorce. You never made me feel left out though, I never felt like I was less for not having incredible, hilarious stories with nights out with boys or parking-lot drag races. Everything you told me, I felt like I was there.
    But I’ve been thinking a lot recently, and I’m starting to believe that those wonderful stories weren’t so wonderful after all.
Love, Emma

Dear Leila,                                            March 8, 1997
    I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.
Emma

Dear Leila,                                               February 19, 1997
    I remembered. I remembered everything, oh my God, Leila how could you?
    Emma

Dear Leila,                                               February 25, 1997
    I’m not entirely sure that the “Dear” belongs in front of your name anymore. On the other hand, I’m not entirely sure of anything anymore, so what the hell, I’ll leave it. Evidently, I remembered. Lucky for me, this sudden surge in memory provoked not only a massive breakdown that I’ve been recovering from for the better half of a week, but I’ve also been gifted with nightmares, episodic crying, and a generally suicidal disposition. So thank you so much for that.
    My doctors or nurses or whoever they are want me to write exactly what happened. I’m not sure if this is for their sake or mine, but I do know that this is the first time in five or six days that I’ve been able to hold a pencil without trembling too badly. I suppose there’s no use in delaying this further, so let’s pick up where I left off.
    After you completely murdered that “Frosty the Snowman”, you turned to me, face flushed from tears and frigid temperatures. In a considerably calm voice, you said “Let’s take a walk through the woods.” And me being me, I obliged.
    I probably don’t need to remind you again of your parents divorce, but it is worth noting that you had been pretty spacey since it happened. Especially when your dad remarried at the end of the summer. You began ignoring my calls and texts, and I was growing desperate. Finally, I decided to put myself entirely out of my element and go to Jeremy’s Christmas party with you. That in itself was a horrible idea, some sort of last-ditch attempt to preserve my longest friendship with my best friend.
    I regret that so much, more than anything. I’ve never been one to persevere in situations of extreme peer pressure, especially not pressure from you. Of course I would go to the stupid party with you, of course. I can’t even believe this, Leila. I’m sorry, I can’t do this right now.
Emma

Dear Leila,                                                February 26, 1997
I have to finish. I hate doing this, and I hate you but apparently I have to finish. You have to understand how hard this is for me, you have to try. You were my best friend. And, stupid me, I thought I was yours, too. But I guess not. Now where did I stop?
Despite our seemingly unbreakable friendship, after the divorce we stopped talking. You ignored me in the halls and around town. The few times we hung out seemed to be out of pity on your part. But that night, even though we hadn’t spoken, really spoken, in months, the car ride to Jeremy’s house didn’t feel the slightest bit awkward. When we got there however, you completely ditched me. I felt alone, abandoned in a strange house with strange people. I had no idea where you were, so I figured I ‘d look around and persuade you to drive me home. So I searched for you, like a child playing hide and go seek.
    After ten minutes of me aimlessly wandering through that mansion, I found you. You were in an upstairs bathroom, and you weren’t alone. Who was in the bathroom with you, Leila? Was it Jeremy? That’s not even the best part. Not only were you with him, you were snorting cocaine. I was already drunk and very confused. That just sent me over the edge. I looked you dead in the eyes, shook my head, and left. You ran after me, catching up and grabbing my arm, pleading with me to walk and look at the Christmas lights. For whatever reason, I went with you. And then, like magic, we were in the woods.
    I was screaming about you ruining your life, and you were crying, apologies flying out of your mouth and racing the tears that were leaking from your eyes. I felt so sorry for you, some part of me still feels sorry for you. I cried and hugged you, and promised everything would be okay, that I forgave you and everything was okay. And what did you do? You hit me over the head, not once, not twice, but three times. Then, as if that weren’t enough, you traded my money for your stash, hit me once again, and left me alone in the snow.
    You called the police hours later, but by that time you were gone. You ran away, and framed me for your little business and broke my head and my heart, and oh my God, I hate you.
Emma