It sounds cold. It seems cruel. I should feel badly about the loss of a friendship and I ought to do all I can to prevent its absolute destruction.

I am.

I'm not doing a thing.

I haven't done anything about it for months because if I open my mouth, I'm going to spew things that I'd later regret. I would be honest, I'd be vicious. I don't know if it's that it's not worth it to me or that I'm hoping time will bring my friend and I back into cheerful conversation.

If I say anything, I'm really going to burn that bridge.

I recall the number of times I bit my tongue and apologized for working too hard/starting a relationship/sleeping/pursuing a passion during that summer and roll my eyes at my lack of a spine. Indeed, it did create a sense of peace for the first time in six months, but I wondered if I'd be able to forget the indignation I felt.

It wasn't all my fault. I wasn't the villain, she wasn't the victim.

It lay hidden, dormant for the years of debauchery, graduations, first jobs and relocations. "That" was never discussed, when it really should have been.

Receiving a letter in the mail with the same claims, same terse lines, brought "that" all back. This wasn't just a matter of a few months in new locations. This had been five years of suppressed tension brought to light long after it arose.

I wasn't prepared - and I'm not prepared - to be as gracious and self-sacrificing this time around.

If I came off as the villain last time, the cruelty I supposedly demonstrated then was going to pale in comparison to what I would unleash now.

It sounds cold. It sounds cruel. But that's the best I can do.