"We need to talk," I read aloud, hoping that hearing the words would make them sensible. I glanced up from my phone to examine my motel room, finding no answers in my dirty reflection on cracked mirror. "We haven't spoken in three years," I mumbled to myself. A habit I had picked up from years of near-constant solitude. "Why do we need to talk?"

Confusion overruling my fear that it might sound rude, I sent back "Are you sure you have the right number?"

Not ten seconds later my phone buzzed again.

"Yes."

Rolling my eyes, I tossed my phone on my bag and threw myself onto the little bed, instinctively holding my breath until the wave of dust subsided. What could she want to talk about? Why couldn't she have explained anything in her text? I hadn't been back home in years, so why would she want to talk? Why now? Why not before I left? Why didn't I delete her number? And more importantly, why hadn't she deleted mine? If she wanted to see me, wanted me to still be a part of her life, why didn't she stop me from leaving in the first place?

I dragged my fingers through my hair, grimacing at the greasy clumps of bleached blonde as they slid into my face. Without much thought, I determined that risking whatever diseases I might catch from the run-down shower was better than staying uncomfortable and smelly. Responding to the text was no longer my priority.

Besides, I was on the opposite side of the country. How would we meet? I sure as hell wasn't going home. I had cut all ties with my family and didn't dare risk seeing them again.

Now that I think about it, maybe I should have thanked them. All I needed was a little push out the door, a subtle word or two to let me know "my kind" wasn't accepted, and suddenly I was free to follow my dreams, and if I ignored the stabbing pain of loneliness, leaving had been the best thing for me.

I chuckled to myself. Right. Chasing your dreams was a great idea. If you also ignore the insects and the unidentifiable stains and the broken television and the cigarette holes in the sheets and the weird orange water coming out of the shower head and the mold on the walls and your rumbling stomach and--

"UUUUUUGH," I cut myself off. "It was a great idea. I'm doing what I love, I don't care if I'm dirt poor. I'm living my dream." Even as I said it, I realized how depressing my statement was. I had sold everything but the bare minimum, hopped in my truck, and drove, not bothering to say goodbye or plan ahead.

Some naïve part of me really believed that I could make some kind of living as a traveling author, but I wasn't selling well and I could barely afford gas, let alone food or a bed. In fact, the only reason I wasn't spending yet another night in my truck was because the motel owner took pity on me. You know your life is officially a mess when a motel owner--not a hotel owner, a poor, run-down motel owner--takes pity on you.

"Life sucks," I whispered, careful to keep the soapy water from running into my mouth as I spoke. On a side note, at least the soap smelled good. That was the only positive I could find, and I clung to it for dear life.

I won't go into the rather pitiful details of how I hopped out of the shower shivering because I refused to use one of the towels, or how I somehow managed to smash my face into the door frame as I got dressed.

Rubbing my forehead, I stumbled back into the room and flopped down on the bed, intent on writing down my day's experiences in my journal while the memories were still fresh. I had only written a sentence when I glanced back at my phone. A nagging voice in my mind told me to text her, make plans, and meet up. We hadn't seen each other in so long, and I had to admit that I missed being with her.

I could never recall what event caused us to start talking, but meeting her was like finding my soul mate or something. She understood me, accepted me, and never judged. She went from a stranger to my best friend in a matter of months. I loved her. It scared me how much I needed her. At any moment, she could have run away, left me helpless and alone. I relied on her and gave her power over me, terrifying amounts of power.

So in order to avoid potential future betrayals, I betrayed her. I left. Ran away. Fled from the most important person in my life because I was scared that she didn't need me like I needed her.

God, I was an idiot. I was a fucking idiot.

There were tears, so many tears. That should have been enough to convince me, to get it through my thick, insecure skull; I didn't want to go, and she didn't want me to leave. Maybe I was brain addled, but I just couldn't see how someone like her would want to associate with someone like me. She was perfect, I was a mess. She gave me the brightest smiles and made me feel loved, and I gave her heartbreak and made her feel unwanted.

Hesitantly, I reached for my phone. I wondered what she looked like all grown up, how she was doing in college, if she still smiled like she did when we were teenagers, if she still remembered our nicknames and inside jokes, I wondered if she had typed up long text messages and deleted them like I had, too afraid to hit send, and I wondered if she had spent agonizing hours staring at her phone waiting for me to call.

For months, all I could write about in my journal was how I saw her everywhere I went. She haunted me like no other had before, and I had no idea how to get over her. I missed her more than anything, but my fear held me back. What if she rejected me? What if she was mad at me for abandoning her and she pulled away when I tried to reconnect? What if she forgot about me?

Before we met, my biggest fear had been that I would never find someone who understood me, but after we met, I simply became paranoid of losing the only person who did.

I hurt her. Probably a lot more than I hurt myself. Everyday, I wished I could go back and explain what I was feeling, go back and fix my view of our relationship before it got out of hand.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, shaking slightly. We did need to talk; I had a lot of explaining to do if she was willing to listen. She deserved to know how much she meant to me, even if it officially destroyed what was left of our friendship--if you could even call it that anymore. She needed to know why I left and that it wasn't her fault and that I missed her and was sorry.

Slowly, l let my thumbs hit the keys, pausing for a minute to read and reread the message again and again before finally hitting send. For as much as I agonized over the text, it may as well have determined my entire life. The screen stared back at me for a minute before it timed out, leaving me to stare at my pitiful, nervous expression.

"Where do you want to meet?"