It was February when our longstanding foursome was cut down to three.

Since that day, we had settled into our new roles as a mundane trio: J, the leader, E, the sister, and me. After all was said and done, I was no longer sure of my title.

A, the exiled one, hadn’t shown her face since the night she broke our collective heart. Standing in her living room, she decided that a man she had known for less than a year was the sun to her stars and the gravitational pull to her earth.

When E, her sister, confronted her, she was nasty. When J tried to make her point, she stormed off. When I, the nervous one, cried in pain as our friendship disintegrated, she made me hate her.

“Fuck you guys,” she spewed. “I don’t need people like you in my life.”

People like us, who tell their dear friend that her lover was sleeping in someone else’s bed.

People like us, who plead for their friend of ten years to have some damn respect for herself.

People like us, who tell her of her worth and what she deserves.  

“You are so much better than him,” the people said.

“He’s the only one who really cares about me,” she screamed. “I don’t need anyone else.”

After that, we retreated into our own lives and our own relationships. We mourned the loss of our friend—though her heart was still beating in the company of the worst man I’d ever met—and journeyed on as a newly-minted sisterhood of three. We weren’t even through the door that night when she turned her back and bid them, the people like us, a permanent farewell.

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