Nikki Yeager

When I was 18 I moved to NYC with a friend from my little 2-mile-wide city. It just so happens that my friend (let's call him Barry*) was a little too big for a town so small. Something I could relate to at the time. 

So we took off for a city that would make all of our dreams a possibility. Mine - independence and networking. His- fashion, art, acceptance and life. We were two teenagers ready for the world. 

And we took it by storm. He found a job at a store he adored, I worked my butt of to prove myself to everyone who ever knew me and everyone who ever would. We rode the subway for the first time, shared our failures (and occasional successes) and giggled before bedtime. He became the best friend I had at the time. When I spent 24/7 working my butt off at a non-profit in the Bronx and moonlighting at a yogurt shop nearby, he experienced NYC inside and out. He took every doubt anyone could have had about him, lit it all on fire and then danced on the ashes (all while paying his bills, getting in amazing shape, enjoying his social life and exceling professionally). And when I came home exasperated and he came home exhausted, we collapsed together and relied on each other. Little did I realize at the time, he was becoming - and eventually became- the person I'd always tried to be. He was the person who could do it all.

On top of that, he made that first year what it will always be in my memory: perfect. 

And then there was the day I felt particularly abused by the world. The day I blamed Barry for everything that was hard in life. And I didn't just blame him, I took out my rage at my coworkers, my deadly exhaustion, my sleepless nights, my work overload, I took it all out on him by writing a journal entry I thought he'd never see. I figured it'd be ok to pour my anger out on him as long as he never knew. 

But I left that journal open and I managed to come closer to ruining a friendship than I ever had before. 

Sure, I spent the next week avoiding him, and he considered moving home. But it eventually blew over. He brushed off my scathing comments as well as he could and I never brought it up again. He left the event holding his head high, I left it cowering in a corner.

But we healed as well as we could and I continued to consider him as the one person I needed in my life. I hope he always knew that.  

A few years later we casually fell out of touch. 

And it turns out, my once best friend, turned into a boy I haven't spoken to in over a year. 

And for some reason I keep rereading that journal entry in my mind. I can never take back those venomous words but I hope wherever he is, he knows that not a sentence of that entry was ever true. Because this boy, he did what he came to do from the moment he set foot in Manhattan. He made it in NYC and he did it without the help of anyone. He did it with more initial enjoyment than me and more feeling than I could ever seem to muster. He did it while finding love and finding himself. And Barry, he never had to make up lies about his roommate in a journal for the sake of faceless rage. No, he was always too kind for that. Too kind, too responsible, and too good a friend. 

I'd be lying if I said I didn't miss him. And I just hope that that wherever he is, he would believe that I've never met a person I'd be more proud to know. A person I'd believe in more. 

Against all odds, I honestly believe he has everything it takes to set the world ablaze. 

* Sorry for the awful fake name, Barry.