The Many Faces of Happiness

Best Friend

It was my first day of public high school. I remember waking up that morning, my heart racing with the anxiety. Having spent the majority of middle school at a private Islamic school, I was terrified. 

Everyone's going to hate me. I'm going to be alone, and the school is so large, I might as well get a GPS just for finding my classes!

Catching the bus was easy enough. Stand outside my house, wait for the yellow bus to appear. Sit towards the front alone, looking out the window instead of talking to people. Because people were scary. Silently chanting the bus number inside my head, hoping I wouldn't forget. 

4-2-8-5. 4-2-8-5. 4-2-8...

It's a miracle I made it to my first class of the day, Latin. I didn't want to take that class, but it seemed I was stuck, doomed to take three years of a dead language- since I'd transferred in as a sophomore, I got all the classes no one else wanted. When I walked inside, I was fearful. There were more people in this classroom than my entire old school! 

A boy sensed the nervousness and sat down next to me. He extended his hand, and I rejected it. I was afraid of boys, afraid of people really. 

But he didn't give up. He kept trying.

Classmate. 

A few months later, I was crying, having just gotten off the bus after a violent morning at home. And it was too much- my chest felt like it was heavy, damp as if my tears had soaked my chest from the inside. I sank to the floor in a random hallway, letting the tears take over. People must have been staring, and so my hands were shaking now- an anxiety attack was the cherry on top. 

Suddenly, a hand was on my shoulder, and someone turned me towards them, trying to wrap their arms around me in a hug. My inner abused self took over...I kneed my attacker in the groin, and when they had bent over in pain, I used my palms to slam them into the lockers behind me. My heart was threatening to burst out of my chest, my breaths racing as I saw the figure crumple to the ground. 

My attacker looked up in pain, and when I saw the small Indian boy who sat next to me in Latin class with tears streaming down his face, it was my turn to sob. But, to my surprise, he stood up and looked me in the eye. There was a trace of pain in his voice as he laughed and said, "Remind me not to hug you. I'm guessing it brings back bad memories?" I sniffled as I wiped my tears and nodded. This time, it was me that extended my hand to help him up.

Friend. 

The next year, I struggled to grasp with a word that escaped the boy's lips when I talked about home. "Abuse". I'd heard of it before, but I never thought that it was me. I grieved, realizing for the first time in my life that not everyone was hurt as often and as deeply as me. Throughout the pain of accepting everything for what it was, the boy surprised me in more ways than one. 

In junior year, he wrote a poem about me for his English class. When he'd shown me it, I gasped as I realized he'd even taken the time to draw a little girl in a hijab and glasses on the side- a little me. The trinkets continued throughout my senior year as well. Surprise brownies the days after violence  at home. Long text messages of how much I was worth it, how I deserved the world and then some, in his view. Letters on my birthday, signed off with the female nickname I'd given him so my parents wouldn't know. Stuffed animals. Ancient Rome memes. Jokes. Handwritten letters on the day of my graduation, telling me he was going to miss me during his senior year.

 I'd never had a friend like this before, and my mind struggled to grasp what role the boy in my life played. He certainly wasn't a friend. But a close friend? That word didn't seem right either. Then freshman year of college came, and I finally found the word I was looking for. I was in tears, having read his college application essays. They were a beautiful story of friendship, and I was in shock as I realized, I was the protagonist. He'd written about me, the story of our friendship.

Best Friend. 

The little Indian boy that sat next to me became such an important part of my life. He'd taught me how to live, how to not be afraid. For I was truly afraid of living before I met him. He taught me about abuse, but he also taught me about friendship, love, dreams, hope, and so much more. He supported me through the depths of the darkness that engulfed me, and stood by my side as I started climbing the mountain towards recovery. Every accomplishment, every relapse even, I was told I was worth it. The words felt like lies at first, but eventually, I began accepting them. 

I started laughing again. Making friends. Running in the rain with him after Latin class because why not. Pushing myself forward to accomplish things in the fields I wanted to, not caring what other people thought. Finding meaning in the pain at home. Chasing my dreams. Documenting the small reasons that life was so beautiful-- the reasons that life was worth it. 

I began to live. And it's all thanks to the little Indian boy that never gave up on me. My best friend.