----------- Hamilton -------- eliza's pov I put myself back in the narrative, A quiet hand rewriting time.
For years I stood, a shadowed figure,
A footnote to his rise and climb.

He wrote, he fought, his words were endless,
A story woven, bold and loud.
But I was there, behind the pages,
Unseen beneath the cheering crowd.

I loved him once—a love relentless,
A fortress built, then set aflame.
He bared his sins to all who’d listen,
And left me burdened with his name.

My letters burned, my voice was silenced,
The ashes whispered tales unsaid.
Yet in the ruin of his story,
I stood, though wounded, in his stead.

For all the good, for all the sorrow,
I took my place, I made my mark.
To build his orphaned dreams tomorrow,
And keep his light where it was dark.

But history is unforgiving,
It sings of men, it shrouds their wives.
I gave, I grieved, and kept on living,
Through remnants of our broken lives.

So now I step back from the story,
No longer will my heart remain.
A ghost within his gilded glory,
A quiet end to endless pain.

I’m erasing myself from the narrative, And leaving what is his—his own.
Let time forget my place beside him.
This silence now is mine alone.

Sometimes I feel like I’m insane, Like I’m speechless, nothing to say. Nothing to lose, Nothing to gain.

Then I realize it’s in my brain, No matter what I take I’m stuck in pain, I don’t want to feel anymore, Don’t want to feel a thing,

A girl can only take so much, Until she must explode, She will surely meet her judge, And be fully exposed.

I know that it’s all in my head, But it still doesn’t make sense, We were supposed to be forever, But now we can’t even be friends.

It isn’t because I don’t love you, Know I always will. But I hav to show you the respect you deserve, No matter how badly it hurts me,

I miss you all the time, And look back at those good old days When we were always together, I guess I thought your love would last forever.

I wish you’d come back But I have to let it be. I wish you the best, Wonder if you ever think of me.

At some point, we’ve gotten together, never knowing it would be the last time.

Our bikes, which we used to ride through the neighborhood, now collect dust in our basements

Or collect rust outside.

The basketball we played with, shooting hoops down at the park

We used to stay out all day long, never wanting it to get dark.

Talking on the landline led to laughter on the phone,

Sneaking around the neighborhood, in and out of our own homes.

Late night car rides, amusement parks, that old diner where we’d rendezous

Camping trips, summer breaks, having backyard barbeques.

We used to always talk about how close we’d stay once we all made it,

But life has been so different for us since we’ve graduated.

Not a single peep from anyone I’d refer to as a friend,

There comes a point in all our lives where playtime has an end.

“How do you do it?” He looked startled. “Do what?” “Just…create. Something out of nothing. There aren’t many people who can do that, you know. Gods, parents, and artists.” “Poetic” Alex laughed quietly, and he joined her. But it slowly faded into a frown. “I’ve always thought it had to do with feeling. Empathy, you know? And an unhealthy love for story.” Ty winced. “Sorry, you don’t want to hear about all this.” “I asked,” Alex said. “And I like it.” Ty shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t write anymore.” Alex started at that, trying to sit up. Her arm gave out and she fell back into bed, stifling a groan. Ty leaned forward immediately. “What can I—”  “Just talk,” Alex said. “Why did you stop writing?” He swallowed. It pained Alex to know that she was hurting him—a silly paradox, since it was her pain that hurt him—but there was nothing to be done. Everyone was helpless against disease. “I don’t know,” he finally said. “It just sort of happened. One day I could write, and the next day it was gone.” “Gone?” Ty shrugged. “I didn’t—I mean, I used to write short stories. Poems. That sort of thing. And they were good. Not perfect or anything, but good.” He smiled faintly, his eyes focused on something distant and strange. Alex’s heart lightened to see him smile. “I had friends who loved them. People who’d read everything I wrote and tell me how amazing it was, how it made them feel. You hear about writer’s block, but I don’t think that’s what it was.” Alex leaned back, her eyes fluttering closed as her exhaustion took hold. “I’m still listening,” she murmured. “Keep talking. What was it?” Ty’s voice floated above her. She focused on it, forcing it to be more important than her headache.  “I haven’t thought about it as much as I should have. I still love story in all its forms, but I never have time for it anymore. So that’s probably part of it. But the main thing, I think, is that I lost that empathy.” Alex heard Ty take a deep breath. “You remember that my grandma died last year.” “Mm-hmm.” “I never cried for her. It wasn’t even me being tough or anything; I just…never felt sad.”  Alex’s eyes fluttered open. “Didn’t you love her?” “Of course!” Ty glanced away. “I’ve never told anyone this. It’s so hard to explain. I loved her so much—still do—but she was always so distant. I mean, she lived a full six hours away. Her dying didn’t really change my life that much. And—well, I know you aren’t religious. But I’ve always known that I’d see her again, and it didn’t really matter. I don’t know if that’s cruel, but it’s what I felt. What I still feel.” Ty broke off sharply, his mortification filling the silence. “I—sorry—that was stupid—” Alex glared up at him. “It wasn’t,” she said firmly. “I’m not going to die.” Ty nodded, but he still looked heartbroken. “I’m _not. _Just you wait. And as soon as I’m better, I’ll hit you around for thinking that.” “Right,” Ty said. Alex let out a breath. “So you weren’t sad. It’s a strange religion, one that doesn’t let you mourn your family.” Ty winced. “No, it’s…” he let out a huff of air. “I’m explaining it all wrong. It isn’t that my God won’t let me mourn. It’s more that…He lets me not have to. That’s not it either. I think it’s less about Him and more about me. I have this disconnect with my emotions, Alex. I can talk myself out of—or into—most feelings.” “How do you talk yourself into a feeling?” Alex laughed, then immediately regretted it.  “I know my triggers,” Ty said. “I know what will make me miserable, and I focus on it. It used to be that I could do that for other people too. I’d tell myself their stories in my head, imagine all of it, and then it would just…bleed out of me and onto the page.” Alex nodded, allowing the silence to spread. The fan above her rattled, and she could hear cars outside the window. Cars with people, and people with stories. Where had they come from, and where were they going? Which ones were hurting, and which ones were celebrating? Alex found herself hit with a wave of nausea as she tried to picture it all. Every person in the entire world, each with a story of their own.  “It desensitizes you,” she realized. “Feeling for every person burns you out.” “That’s a good way of putting it.” Alex frowned. “Is it better, feeling nothing? No more hurt, right?” She watched Ty closely, but the light above him cast his face into shadow. She could barely make out his eyes.  “No.” The word was nearly a whisper. “The tears are worth it, because they give you stories to tell. Stories you couldn’t tell, if you’d never felt that pain.” Alex blinked up at him. She’d never seen him this vulnerable before. “There’s a power in that,” she said thoughtfully. “In staying outside the emotion, but still feeling it.” Ty smiled, and a kind of understanding passed between them. “I’ll let you rest,” he said. “You’ll be better before we know it.” Alex nodded tiredly. “Thank you,” she said as she drifted off. “For talking.”

"I've known you since college. We moved in together in a house that I bought, with you promising to pay for half of the mortgage and half of the utilities. I've been paying everything, feeding you, keeping the roof over our heads and you're telling me that I'm stressing you out?" I looked over the table at Bella, anger bubbling to the surface with everything that's happened.

"Well, i've been helping my mom pay the bills at her house so they can keep the house. You haven't really made it easy to live with you." Bella looks down at the table. "Like, come on Melissa, you don't even do your dishes right away."

I look at Bella and look around the kitchen. "You realize that cleaning the kitchen and doing the 5 dishes in the sink is the first thing you've actually done for the house, right? I've taken care of everything with you not keeping your promises to me." I glare at her, feeling everything from the last 5 months coming out, finally. "You didn't have to move in with me. I can take care of the house myself."

Bella looks up at me with that, her eyes seething with something. "I didn't ASK to move in. I didn't ASK you to pay all the bills. I have to drive an hour to work and an hour back. Gas is expensive." she pauses to wipe a tear from her cheek, but I'm not going to let her continue.

"You DID ask to move in. You kept PROMISING to pay half the bills. I even offered to lower them because I know that gas is espensive. Hell, i've offered to pay your damn gas bill so you can get to work each day!" I'm yelling at this point, standing from my chair with both hands on the table between us.

"Well you haven't made it EASY!" She yells back at me. "You think I want to keep breaking my promises with you? I can't talk to you anymore about what i'm feeling without feeling guilty over not paying you back and for you paying for everything. I feel like you're holding it over my head!" Bella sinks back into her chair again.

I'm not going to give her sympathy for feeling guilty about something she should have told me about. I could have helped. "I make you feel guilty without ever bringing it up that i've been paying for everything. I only have asked you for rent twice since you've moved in. That was AFTER giving you 3 months of free rides from me. You don't think i'm not exhausted from working all the time while you give everything to your parents and spend more time there than you do here?" Bella looks back up at me again. "I don't think I can do this anymore."

Bella's eyes say she's breaking inside. "I have felt like i've wanted to die since i've moved in here." As that bomb settles beside us, I take a deep breath.

"Then leave." I pause, taking a breath. "If you feel like you have wanted to die since you got here, leave. I'm not going to force you to stay. But this is it. I'm done with the emotional abuse from you. Get your shit. Get out of my house." I glare at her longer, until she gets up from the table and goes back to her room on the other end of the house.

I grab my cat and go back to my room, feeling the tears welling up in my eyes at the loss of a friend i've known for 4 years. How did this happen? Am I really to blame for this? I was there for her when her boyfriend broke up with her, when we spent endless nights up partying. What happened?

I get a text from Bella but choose to ignore it. I don't want to talk to anyone right now. I pet my cat, cuddling him close to my chest, his fur tickling my nose as he purrs and nuzzles deeper into my arms. After what feels like hours, I pull out my phone. I look at the message from Bella.

Bella: Im sorry. I can't do this anymore. I won't be a prisoner in your house. We can still be friends, but I just can't live with you. I'm leaving for my parent's house now. I'll let you know when I get there.

I breathe out a sigh, feeling the burden of caring for two adults on my small paycheck slip from me. I didn't know how stressed i've been from this. Bella had been trying to get me to stay home more, instead of visiting my Mom even though she was at her parent's house every night. She wanted me to not let anyone into the house she didn't approve of. The one time I had asked to bring one of my other friends over she agreed, then hid in the bathroom until he left, telling me that I shouldn't have brought him over because he made her uncomfortable in "her" house. Now she's telling me she wants to die while living here, throwing that at me like I should be in control of her emotions.

Thinking back over everything in the last 5 months makes me realize something. This was such a toxic friendship. She's been making me feel bad about things that I have no way of controlling. She says yes, then changes her mind about things all the time, saying I never asked her and she's not comfortable with my choices. I feel tears well in my eyes. I will Never let someone control me like this again. Bella will never have a say over how I live my life again. I quickly open her contact in my phone and think about blocking her. No. I need to wait until she moves out. Then I can block her. I set the phone back down and keep cuddling with my cat, hoping that this never happens again.

I thought you were my friend But you stabbed me in the back You could have had anyone of them But you had to end up with him What’s it like to have all the boys Falling at your feet everywhere you go Cause you took the one that I wanted You knew what you were doing too Who cares about anyone else’s feelings It’s not like I mattered to you anyway I cherished our friendship for so long But it was always disposible for you Don’t come running back to me When you find your heart broken again Cause I won’t feel no pity And I won’t be your friend

The end of an era between friends can be a bittersweet experience. It often signifies a significant change, such as moving to different cities, life milestones like graduating, starting new jobs, or even shifting dynamics within the group. This transition can evoke a mix of emotions, including sadness for what is ending and excitement for what lies ahead. Here are some thoughts on navigating this period:

The club did not want them they had to go away one was from a different world . They would see each other or be very . Fir the other he was there fur a lon* time he would have to find another group The group of freunfs could be another c,in but it wiwoukd be a different club and rules

This was an official club separation

"A dollar fifty??" Oscar held the bottle in his hand in the general store, looking at the label and back at his friend, Beau. His eyes narrowed as he looked at the bottle and then back to the shelf, comparing the prices on the bottle he held with the others. 1.50$ on both. Oscar sighed, digging into his pockets. "thats a whole fifty cents more than it used to be.." Oscar groaned, pulling out 50 more cents from his pockets. Beau jokingly sighed after the other, smiling as he watched the other's frustration. "Your favorite brand's gettin pricy, Oscar." Beau teased, patting Oscar's back. Oscar turned to him, looking up to meet his eyes. "I aint gonna buy two of these, thats damn ridiculous. You opposed to splittin' one?" Beau chuckled, shaking his head. "I aint opposed, if you don't guzzle down all of it in one sip." "deal."

The two made their way back to Beau's wagon, a cloth covered wagon where he lived, a mattress inside lit by lanterns with a pistol hanging off the side. Beau leaned up against the wagon, Oscar right beside them as they popped open the bottle and exchanged sips.

Oscar and Beau had met when they were only boys. They were both only 9 when they met in the woods by A local farm. they spent every morning at dawn playing, Oscar finding weirdly shaped rocks to give to beau, Beau playing tag with Oscar and accidentally shoving him into the mud- they were boys together. But Beau could never play long- and eventually stopped showing up when they turned 12. Oscar knew why, Beau had told him- But they didn't really like to talk about it much. but when Beau and Oscar reunited at 17, it was as if nothing had changed yet everything was different.

here they stood, sharing a bottle of Sarsaparilla as the sun set upon the ranch belonging to a mutual friend of theirs where Beau parked his wagon.

Oscar was the first to break the silence after a few long minutes.

"Do you ever miss playing every morning like we did?" Another quiet moment passed before Beau responded. "I miss our ignorant youth. And yeah, I do miss it sometimes."

Oscar chuckled. "look at you, being all poetic." Beau smiled, shaking his head. "its just the truth, don't know how else I'd put it."

The two looked into the sunset together, the moon peeking out to greet the sun before taking the night shift. Oscar took the last sip as he always did, setting the bottle aside.

"Beau, did you ever keep any of those dumb rocks I gave you?" "Had to leave em behind. I kept em somewhere special but I couldnt take them with me." Oscar nodded, biting his lip nervously as he prepared himself for what he really wanted to say.

"Y'know why I gave em to you?" Beau thought for a moment before chuckling, looking down at him. "Well I know some of them were rather phallic shaped, and we were dumbass kids." "no-! no, the other ones. the other rocks." Beau rolled his eyes with a little smile. "They always looked somewhat like hearts." "yeah."

multiple quiet minutes had passed, the sun having left them to their own thoughts, the moon keeping them company.

"...I always thought you were real sweet." Beau shook his head with a little smile, running a hand along his own chin. "the hell are you tryna do, butter me up?" "no! no-" Oscar quickly shook his head. "I've just.. seen you in a bit of a different light lately."

Beau thought for a moment about his words. he wasn't dense, definitely not stupid either. He could read between the lines. "Are you sayin' you want to go beyond what we have?" Oscar looked down, kicking at the dirt with his old torn up boots, looking back at him. "..You're real smart, Beau. always have liked that about you." Beau chewed on the inside of his cheek, sighing. "I cant even read, Ozzy." "you know what I meant."

Beau knew what Oscar was trying to say. it was clear, But he wanted to hear it from his lips. His.. sweet, soft lips... he shook his head, shaking the thoughts to the side. He decided to be the one to put the question out there, see if Oscar would answer. "Then what are we?"

The dreaded question. Oscar froze up, unsure of where to go from here. he didn't think he'd get this far. he was scared, knowing this would be the end of this era and onto the next for him. but he wasn't going to just ignore him. he deserved an answer.

"...More than friends, Id like."

"I think we can work that out."

This is it Time to go our seperate ways I’ll miss all the memories and all our laughs from these days

Our path’s don’t involve each other any longer but thats nothing to be sad about We’ve been through wars and bliss None of that will be tossed out

From the mistakes we made together to the days we felt like kings I can’t lie this does sting and I’m afraid it won’t get better

From kids that were riding our bikes through town to teens that never knew the end was around

We beat the world, which was against us They fired their arrows, but no one can best us

Nothing good about a goodbye to my brother Maybe will meet again, this life or another

Harriet had never felt old until the man younger than her died in the room next to Betty’s. She was young at heart. She dyed her hair, kept up with the changing times, and knew how to reset the WiFi. She was hip and had never broken a hip.

Then Betty was put in the hospice home. It was a nice place, Harriet supposed. Quiet and sterile during visiting hours, except for when another patient had an episode or someone’s grandkids came to visit. Harriet was fine watching Clint Eastwood movies on the common area TV, fondly recalling watching those as a young girl.

“How’ve you been, Betty?” Harriet sat down beside her friend. She was always laid up in her bed these days, smelling stale but smiling brightly.

“Oh, I’ve been all right,” Betty said, and Harriet wondered if she left it at that because there was nothing else to be any more. Nothing happened here. Sometimes the TV fritzed out and other times her kids brought her a new book to read. Sometimes she even played Bingo, or maybe dominoes. Pinochle if her hands weren’t bothering her too much.

“But Chuck died the other day. He was there one minute, and then he wasn’t… I wonder when they’re going to put someone in his room.”

Harriet blinked, heart pounding in her ears. Charles ‘Chuck’ Hemingford was a sweet old man with crows feet and crazy white hair, and he was younger than Harriet by three and a half years. He rolled around in his wheelchair, gummy smile greeting everyone. And he was dead.

Harriet sat there for a moment, thinking, ‘oh, that poor old man.’ Then she remembered those three and a half years, and she wondered why she was seventy-six years young while Chuck had been seventy-three years old.

She wondered why she wasn’t holed up in this place that reeked of death and Betty was.

Betty had been a pretty girl. Prettier than Harriet, certainly, and kinder. She’d been the cheerleader archetype minus the bullying. She’d been perfect, and she was lying in a bed in a hospice, because she was going to die before long. Her body was failing her, slowly but surely, and would fall apart, collapsing inward. She’d be dead. Betty was going to die.

“Thank you for coming to visit me, Harry,” Betty said, smiling as if she could read Harriet’s mind. Her hair was gray and fanned out across her pillows, pushed up awkwardly in the back since she’d adjusted her position. Harriet had to remind herself that her own hair was white, too, even if the red dye made her forget.

“Always,” Harriet said quietly, voice strange and croaky in a way she hadn’t heard come from her since her own parents had died (eighty-two and ninety-three).

And she meant it. Even though she knew she was going to live longer than Betty, she would visit her until the end and beyond the end. She would visit her friend until her own body began to give out, however far down the line that may be.

She would look at her friend’s headstone, feeling strangely young in spite of the decades of her life, and she would remember Betty, in all her glory, the best of her days spent lying in a hospice, the glories of her past dressed in a cheerleader’s skirt.

Harriet would be there, even when Betty wasn’t. And when Harriet wasn’t there anymore, well… that was life.