He hasn’t spoken to me in six weeks. I’ve returned the favor, until finally he approaches one night at work. I sigh.

“What was that look for?” He asks, looking amused.

It irritates me.

“Nothing, don’t worry about it.”

“Cyd…”

“I did it on purpose, you know,” I counter suddenly, referring to how I didn’t text him at all.

He knows what I’m talking about.

“Why?” He’s confused and I feel a little twist of hurt.

“Because eight to nine times out of ten I’m the one who texts first. I just wanted to see if for once you’d make the effort to keep up with me. If you cared enough to text me one time. But you didn’t.”

I hold eye contact, surprised by how calmly I was able to say that. He’s quiet, looking at me.

“You know, when people care they make the effort,” I continue, “you’ve helped me quite a bit with things and I’ve shared a lot of stuff with you. I appreciate you listening to me and offering to be there, but half the time I don’t even know if we’re actually friends.

“That shouldn’t be something I have to question. And maybe it’s just me overthinking and having no self confidence but honestly I have experience with people leaving and it’s less painful than this.

“You say I’m one of your best friends but you’re fine with going weeks without talking and then sometimes you ignore me when we do see each other. I don’t deserve to be treated like garbage. Nobody does.

“So if you’re done with me, just say that you are and go. I can handle it. But don’t lie to me and say that you care and then make me feel like the bad guy. Friends don’t do that.”