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( the day: my best friend broke my h̶e̶a̶r̶t̶ ego )
If you asked my younger self who I wanted to marry once I was older, the answer was always my best friend.
Max would have the same answer too.
In fact, way back when, we'd made a pact—a promise—to marry each other if we hadn't found anyone else by twenty-five (we were eight, twenty-five sounded old at the time). We've always considered ourselves soulmates, and who better to marry than our soulmate? It was the perfect answer.
Max has been my rock since forever. He was there when I broke my arm falling off my bike when I was seven (and again when I was nine), he was there for every sporting event my mum forced me into while growing up, he was there to hold my hand when I got my ears pierced at eleven, he was the first person I called when I got my first boyfriend at thirteen, and when I went through my first, "I feel like I can't breathe," pain-in-the-chest type heartbreak at fifteen.
He's always been there the same way I've always been there for him. I was there through his karting days, his promotions through Formula 4 and into Formula 3. I was there for the lows when he decided he needed a break, just like I was there to see him fall back in love with the sport. I was always there. His best friend, his sidekick, his biggest fan; always.
And yet, I hadn't been there when he realised that he wanted to marry Violet. I hadn't been there to help him pick the engagement ring. I hadn't been there to help plan his proposal or to get excited with him (a stretch for me, I know, considering I hated his choice of bride but, my point still stands). I hadn't been there because he didn't turn to me.
That in itself is a punch to the gut.
The salt in the wound though is the fact I had to find out through an Instagram post along with his 120,000 other followers asif I'm an unimportant outsider: like I'm merely a previous classmate he's not spoken to since leaving school.
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