Emma was an extrovert, but she hadn't always been one.

I suppose it's my fault that we drifted apart in the end.

The truth is, I fell for all that bullshit. I listened to that voice, the sneering one that knipped at the back

of my ears with its sharp incisors, the one that asked, why is your only friend a girl?

I fell for the indoctrination every 12-year-old boy does. And it wasn't like she was a tomboy either.

She was a real, proper girl, complete with the star and heart-shaped hair clips, sweeping blonde bangs,

posters of horses, boy bands all over her purple-painted walls.

She liked fairies. She liked unicorns. I liked her anyway. She was funny.

She always asked me questions. She always shared. She was quiet around others. Her long face always

pointed down at her shoes, but she wasn't like that with me.

It was my fault we drifted apart, but I couldn't stand how they looked at us, all of them when we were playing together next to the basketball courts.

I didn't like how the girls scoffed, how the boys shouted things like I couldn't quite make

out and then shoved each other, laughing uproariously.

But the worst were the adults.

I saw the looks that they gave each other when Emma and I showed up the class side by side, you know, secret looks.

But I knew what they meant.

Hope we get invited to the wedding, right?

So I stopped hanging out with Emma.

I made new friends, boys who liked soccer and spitting contests, and the looks and whispers.

He stopped.

And Emma stayed alone.

That was until high school.

...