Friendship Lives Long

It was a sunny afternoon when I first heard the whispers.

I was the most popular girl in school, mostly because I was the richest. I had a lot of friends, but I also had a best friend, Isabella. You might think she was the second richest girl in school, but apparently she was the nerd in school and not rich. I had a lot of admirers, which made some people very eager for my popularity, like Jess. She tried everything to embarrass me, but none of them worked. Once, she failed again, and I saw her crying in the classroom with the air hanging, I was surprised by her difficulty, so I tried to talk to her, but she was still crying, but somehow louder. Soon, people entered the classroom to prepare for the class, and Jess quickly knelt down and started saying things like. "Please forgive me, Amy! I will definitely make your homework better next time!" I was so shocked!

The laughter that once echoed in the school corridors had turned into a low whisper, phantom sound in my heart. I could feel countless pairs of eyes holding me in their hands, analyzing my every move. Yet when I turned to join them, they would quickly avert their eyes, hoping to be caught doing something they shouldn’t. Agitated, it was only a serious change—a slight shift in tone, an almost imperceptible change in demeanor—but the subtle shift quickly became a naked edge.

People I once called friends began to drift away, their slow pace as evident as the silences they left behind. Every interaction felt like navigating a minefield. My attempts to interject were met with awkward, stilted pauses. My messages in group chats went unanswered. During class, the seat next to me sat empty, the view widened, and my eyes seemed to become pariahs, tainted and untouchable.

“Maybe you analyze too much,” I would whisper to myself every morning, forcing a smile in the mirror. Yet, as time passed, the truth became an inescapable specter.

Election, the gossip was not obvious. One day at lunchtime, as I walked past a group of girls, I overheard them talking about me. They mentioned that I always wore designer clothes, always wore the latest styles, and never wore clothes twice. "She must be a spoiled rich girl," one of them whispered, "she may not even know how expensive her clothes are."

A heavy feeling came over me, like something pressing on my chest. I tried to ignore the words, but they lingered like an invisible shadow, following me wherever I went. Although I knew I could choose to rely on them, their weight was too much for me to bear. They didn't know me - they only saw the surface and thought I was just a girl living in a world of luxury. What they didn't know was that I had been studying those profound knowledge at a young age, day after day, year after year. Listening to the laughter outside and looking at the book in front of me, I once again felt a cruel sense of urgency. I focused my attention on the book in front of me. Because it is in such friendships that I can become the best and become a qualified heir in the future. I tried hard to prove that I was more than just me on the surface, but now, I still felt that I was still defined by their assumptions about wealth and indulgence.

The next day, when I passed another group of students, the topic changed. This time, they were not talking about my clothes, but about my popularity. "She's always surrounded by people, but do we really know her?" one girl said. "I bet she just uses everyone to maintain her status. Her popularity is just an illusion."

I couldn't help but stop and look down at the floor, overwhelmed by emotions that I couldn't express in words. They didn't notice me, but their words pierced me like a knife. I wanted to go and say to them, "You don't understand me at all, you don't know how much effort I put into all this!" But I said nothing, and continued to open up, trying to keep my nerves. I couldn't help but wonder, am I really the hollow one who relies on popularity and status in my eyes? They don't see the pressure I'm under, only the superficial glamor in my life. My loneliness is getting deeper and deeper, but no one seems to understand.

Even boys are gossiping about me. Once, when I was walking in the hallway, I overheard a group of boys talking. "Do you see how she looks at others?" a boy said with a smile. "She wants to be on another level. No wonder everyone revolves around her - she probably thinks she's special."

One particularly painful afternoon, I locked myself in my room as soon as I got home. I lay in bed, on my stomach, tears streaming silently down my cheeks. A lingering thought looped through my mind: If I disappeared, would anyone care?

Just as darkness threatened to envelop me, the phone on the bedside table rang. Egyptian, I completely ignored it, because the despair was too strong to care. But the constant sleep troubled my loneliness just as I caught a glimpse of the screen. It was a message from Isabella, the only one who hadn't abandoned me.

"Hey, are you okay? I didn't see you at lunch. Do you want to talk?"

For a moment, I hesitated. Was this genuine concern, or was it out of pity? Yet, she had a concern that I couldn't ignore. Almost involuntarily, my fingers began typing:

"I'm not okay."

She replied immediately. She called me immediately, her voice full of worry. "I always care about you," she said, her tone firm. "I don't know what happened, but I know one thing - you shouldn't hurt these. Not at all."

She unlocked something inside of me. For the first time in weeks, I caused the emotional dam to break. Between deep sobs, I confided in her my innermost thoughts—the whispers, the rumors, the all-encompassing loneliness. Isabella listened intently, never interrupting, her presence a steady pillar in the storm of my emotions.

“I don’t know who started it,” she whispered when I was done, “and I don’t know why they exist. But one thing I know for sure is that you are not alone. You are compassionate, resilient, and stronger than you think. No matter what, I will be there for you.”

From that moment on, Isabella solidified my unwavering stance. She walked the hallway, quiet and determined. She sat with me at lunch, her voice soothing and drowning out the whispers. She stood by me when others spoke harshly.

When people meet, sparks fly, fleeting, but the heat of the spark is extremely high, and perhaps the brilliance created in that moment may be the rope that holds your friendship together or perhaps I will forget it in my life. Sparks flew in the club, but the fire of friendship would never go out. There were people in the club who added fuel to the fire, and it would always burn vigorously. But once it was protected by a heavy rain of distrust, the fire of friendship would completely die out. Fortunately, I found true friends.