I used to be jealous of Mary. Her Mother was just as awful as mine, God for give me for saying so. But she had things I didn't. It seemed like people really cared about her. There was this thought, in the back of my mind, whenever she would talk to me about her problems: that I was beating her. Better at being troubled.

I never told her about this feeling, but I'm worried it stuck. That she thought that I had it worse, that her own issues didn't matter. I wanted her to think that for a little while, but, despite that, I really did want to be her friend. It's a shame.

I just hope we talk again some day.