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She was fascinated with the inner lives of people she’d known for a fortnight in a way she hadn’t been with me in years. I hated that I still cared about her. It felt undignified to care so much when it had been so long since she asked me a question. She talked about them constantly. They were all we ever talked about. I listened to her talk about what she liked about their minds and their bodies for hours. I learned about their lineage and their health conditions, the way they take their coffee and how often they like to text, their habits and their neuroses, their sense of humour and the details of their relationships. They always had boyfriends, of course, but dressed like they would be open to kissing a woman if the moment felt right. I listened because I thought that’s what friends do. I was unhappy when I first learned that she had fallen in love again but it was not jealousy. She had turned her life around and I was so excited to hear about this new chapter and how she drove herself there. She always needed something or someone to drive her, a project or a person. If she didn’t have a driver, she spent her time thinking about death. She said that she couldn’t do people anymore because she lost herself in them and I took that to mean that she was finally focusing on herself. I had been longing to learn about how she was directing all of that love and energy back into herself and felt intensely disappointed to know that she was back in the throes of only seeing herself through someone else’s eyes. I tried to be supportive because I thought that’s what friends do. Every once in a while, I reminded her of how this was going to end but she never took it well. She said that nobody in her life made her feel bad like this. They were tickled by her stories but I felt she deserved better. I had learned to read her very well, better than anyone we knew. That’s why it hurt to hear her talk sometimes. I could hear everything left unsaid and it was extremely cruel at times. The jealousy didn’t come until she used absolute language. I tried to release the words as soon as they hit my ears but it was too late. The insecurity had formed and cemented itself in moments of lonesomeness. It took me so long to notice the asymmetry. That, too, felt undignified; how long it took. She said she wanted friendship but the asymmetry proved she only wanted an audience member. She didn’t ask about either of my intercontinental moves. She would probably say that she thought I wouldn’t elaborate. Or that my blog told her what she needed to know. There was always a reason. If she had asked, I would have told stories. Once, on the way to the hospital, I read Mahmoud Darwish’s debut poetry book aloud to my father. It was very good that I cried as I read and he shakily told me to stop crying. That car ride was so wonderful and important to me. As grass grows between the joints of a rock, we were once strangers, and will always remain tender, I read. And cried. And believed it to be true.