About a year and a half ago, my long-term boyfriend and I broke up. I was devastated.
Two weeks post-breakup, Jane (this isn't her real name) arrived in my life.
Have you ever met someone and felt like they'd been in your life all along? That's how it was with Jane. One minute we were strangers; the next, best friends. Jane hated people in general, so being close to her felt like the ultimate validation. Plus she despised my ex the moment she met him, which was more than enough to qualify her for bestie status.
Jane quickly became my rock. She was the go-to person for all
the issues in my life, big and small. Woke up on the wrong side of the bed?
Call Jane. Banged a guy on the first date and now he's ghosting me? Text Jane.
Two months into our friendship, we got matching wrist tattoos on a whim — I got a crescent moon and she got a sun. I'd always told myself I'd never get a tattoo with or of another person, and here I was immortalizing a new friendship permanently. I have multiple other tattoos, but this one — the one that I'd gotten as a permanent reminder of my best friend — meant the most to me.
Then Jane stopped talking to me. She wouldn't return my calls or texts — she completely cut me out of her life. Eventually I got a detailed Facebook message where she explained all the reasons she no longer wanted to be my friend. I went from being confused by her silence to being incredibly hurt.
Just like that, my ink became a regret. What was I to do? I liked the tattoo on its own, of course, or I never would have gotten it. But every time I looked at my right wrist, I thought of Jane and our failed relationship. It made me sad, and I hated that I had been impulsive enough to get it done in the first place.
Several months after she cut me out of her life, I butt-dialed Jane and she told me that she missed me. We grabbed lunch and she "made amends" for breaking up with me. Just like that, we were close again.
But for some reason, I always felt strangely desperate around her. Probably because I knew she could leave my life for good at any time — hell, she'd already done it once. My tattoo, ironically, became a permanent reminder that nothing, not even this friendship, was really forever.
Then a few months ago, Jane dumped me again. Even though a small part of me wasn't surprised, I was still shocked by how much it hurt. I'm honestly not sure if we'll reconnect again — but I'm hopeful that we will. Maybe my tattoo will be half of a set again, though that seems to matter less and less. Because if I've learned anything from this, it's that being my own best friend is the most important thing.
And if I forget that? All I have to do is look down at my wrist.