September 1992. The first time you saw her, the little girl who was competitive from birth and your first friend in kindergarten—probably, your only one for a lifetime. Inseparable since that day.

Between many games, laughs and sleepovers, fourteen years passed. Growing mentally and physically, things always come to the surface in the teenage days—sixteen, the first time you told her that you genuinely loved her, not in the same way as before.

Childhood best friends, three years of dating—impossible to think of living without each other, 'cause how could you live without her if she's always been there for as long as you can remember? It's a dead end street, that's the problem.

It was a plausible thought, you should've gone to a different university than her, but you didn't even consider the option when you had the chance. Things were the way they were, being stuck with her, on campus and off, but maybe that was the fun of it.

Anything, but healthy—she could kill you again 'cause the high's twice as high. Predictable as hell, she'd hang up on you, you'd yell at her and you'd say 'goodbye' to each other again, only for her to realize that she couldn't stay done with you.

Best friends and enemies, there was no one in the world who knew better how to keep someone down than the two of you did—love and hate side by side as if she hadn't been your first in everything.

Yet another argument, 'cause this time she was too busy to pay attention to you. Which, by the night's end, would lead to a breakup, only to have it all come back together again two days later.

Screams, accusations, and fingers pointed at any petty mistake that was low enough to hit home. Like two stupid kids who didn't know what they're doing, but the thrill of doing it was what kept them going.

“I thought we talked about this, that this bullshit would end,” she blurted—sitting back on your bed with her face in her hands and a tired, long sigh. “But, we're back here again. I hate this.” She'd never hate you.