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Dear Delilah,
My name is Ryen Trevarrow. We were friends in fourth grade.
I’m sure you don’t even remember me, but I remember you. In fact, you
cross my mind quite a lot. And if you do remember me, then please keep
reading, because there are a lot of things I’d like to say.
You’re under no obligation to listen, but I would be grateful.
By now, I’m sure your life—like mine—has changed a lot. Your
memories of me—if you have any—could range from resentful to so
ambiguous that I barely register on your radar anymore. Maybe you haven’t
thought about me in years.
But just in case…I needed to do this. Maybe for you but especially for
me. I have a lot of guilt, and I deserve it, but there are things that need to be
said, and it’s long past time.
You see, the image is still in my head. You standing against the wall on
the playground, alone because I wouldn’t be your friend any more. I can’t
imagine what you were thinking that day and every day after, but I hope
you know that what I did and what everyone else said or put you through
was never your fault. It was mine, and you were simply there.
There’s a secret I want to share with you. I haven’t even told my best
friend, Misha, because it was so embarrassing.
When I was nine I had a routine every Sunday night. At about six
o’clock, after dinner, I would start to gather all of my hygiene products:
shampoo, conditioner, soap, loofah, clippers, nail file... I’d line up
everything on the window sill above the bathtub, and for the next hour, I’d
bathe.