The Best Friend

She was sitting on her bed, with her pajamas on and laptop wide open. On the other end of the screen, I was sitting in my room ocean apart, just had egg and cheese sandwich for lunch. 'What do you think?' waiting for her response that seems taking forever. I could tell she was still reading the link of my new piece that I have just sent her. She did not answer immediately, there was a time lapse before her eyes staring back to the camera where I can see her better. 'Jesus, Lizzy. I just don't get it why you're not on New York Times yet.' She sounded frustrated, 'This is amazing.' There probably more than a hundred reasons why I haven't made it to the NY Times yet but Cassandra doesn't care. As my oldest best friend slash the first reader, she always thought everything that I have written was amazing, even though it was just about a lousy attempt to move on from a failed relationship, in any way I should have had a column in one of the most prestigious printed media in the States. I giggled at her frustration. This is what I love about Cassandra, she could always managed to restore the faith I almost lost upon myself.

While I was busy blushing and growing feeble wings behind the table listening to her comments, a moment later, she then asked, 'Hey, can you write something about me?' She looked at me full of wishes. 'About you?' I repeated, trying to buy some time, while my mind wander. She is my best friend, but I don't think I could write her down. Look, I can write love stories — not flawless but I am quite good at it because I have felt many forms of imperfections in relationships, both in the butterflies and hopelessness. In writing, I can shape them to be perfect, at least, almost perfect as I can take the beauty out of the ache. While Cassandra, and the rest of my best friends, are rarely being the subject of my writings not because they are insignificant, oh boy, they are my skeleton, my nerves and my organs but because they already are perfect. And writing something that is already perfect scares me; in a way that I would be haunted with the idea that I wouldn't do enough justice for them. What if they appear less perfect than they are?

Her doe eyes waiting for me on the screen hundred thousand miles away, 'Yes! Will you? I want to know how you'd picture me.' I know if I say I couldn't, she wouldn't mind. She'd say it's okay and forget about it. I'd just need to tell her more stories about the new bartender in town and she would seem content. She would listen to everything I have got to say and sometimes, I have got more than a lot of things to say. Not to mention, I have the habit on repeating the same boring stories to her just because I would like to. Sometimes I thought, she is the very victim of my narcissistic obsession being a storyteller. For this, I may owe her everything. Yet, she would always be there to talk some sense when I am off the trail. Maybe it is because she is the opposite of me; she is logical, abide the rule, hates romance and organized. And what I admire the most is that she will always be the person who gives a shit when no one does. She won't give up on anybody that she holds dear no matter how broken they are. She's always putting everybody first before herself. You know, I think she'd probably go to heaven while I'd be stuck in London. After a long while travel through my brain, I agreed to write something about her. I saw her smiling from ear to ear, exposing her rabbit teeth. And I smiled, too. Thinking, it's the least thing I can do to put a smile on her face and thank her for being the best friend everybody would like to have.