Dear Lil Bit Ch. 01

This probably won't reach you, and maybe it shouldn't. But I've been thinking about you, and it feels like something I need to let out--like an ache that's been sitting in my chest for years.

We were best friends once. Do you remember that? After the twins left for college, it was just the two of us. Like we'd quietly agreed to be each other's safety net while the rest of the world spun faster around us. We'd wander the bookstore for hours, thumbing through titles we couldn't afford, joking about which smutty romance looked the worst. Or we'd head out to the state park just to swim and laugh, letting the hours slip by with no urgency. It was easy, back then. We were just... us.

There's a part of me that always assumed we'd sleep together. Not because it was inevitable or owed, but because we were so often alone, unsupervised, curious, and comfortable with each other. There were no boundaries, really--not emotionally, and sometimes not verbally either. We talked about sex in ways most people never can. We were too young to realize how rare that was.

I still remember sitting in your passenger seat after we bought your first vibrator. You were nervous, too shy to go into the shop yourself, but I went in without thinking twice. You laughed when I got back into the truck, cheeks flushed, clutching the bag like it might explode. You were buzzing with that vulnerable, daring energy, and I asked, like an idiot, what the inside of a vagina felt like. You blinked and said, "Like window blinds. But wet." I laughed so hard I nearly cried. You were so earnest about it. And I was so stupidly charmed.

Then there were the photos. Those stunning, confident, adult photos you took with your boyfriend--so different from how I'd ever seen you. When you showed them to me, I was stunned. Not just because you were beautiful (and you were), but because you trusted me enough to share that version of yourself. It felt like a line I'd never expected you to invite me to cross. And even though it wasn't sexual between us--not really--I'll admit, my body reacted. But more than that, I felt proud. You looked powerful, sensual, seen.

I never told you how special that moment was to me. I didn't want to make it weird. But later, when those photos surfaced online, I thought of you right away. I have no idea who posted them, and I pray you never thought it was me. I never would've done that. You trusted me with something sacred, and even if I was a pervert sometimes, I was never cruel. I hope you knew that. I hope you still do.

We made a promise once--do you remember? That we'd tell each other the moment we lost our virginity. You beat me to it. I don't remember who he was, only that you told me with a strange mix of pride and awkwardness, like you weren't sure how to feel. By the time it was my turn, we'd already drifted. I didn't know how to bring it up. Maybe I was still hoping you'd be the one.

Looking back, I can't even blame you for drifting. I texted more than you did. You didn't always answer. And I know I talked about sex a lot. Maybe too much. Probably too much. It's not an excuse, just... it was what I thought we did. That was our rhythm. But I see now how that could've worn on you. You had social anxiety, and sometimes just leaving the house was too much. Maybe I didn't make it easier. Maybe you needed space, and I just filled it with dick jokes and innuendo.

I wish I'd been a better friend. I wish I'd shut up and listened more. I wish I'd asked you how you were, really, instead of defaulting to safe, horny banter. You were there for me so many times. You deserved the same.

But I also wish you had said something. You could've told me I was being a pervert. I'd have listened--maybe not the first time, but eventually. I'd have rather been corrected than quietly replaced. You had your flaws too, and maybe anxiety became a shield you used more than you needed. We both fumbled. That's just the truth.

Still, sometimes I wonder if you ever think about me. If you remember that boy who bought you a vibrator without hesitation. If you remember the boy who laughed with you at the lake, who kept your secrets, who never once judged you for wanting to explore yourself. And if we're being honest--because what's left to lose--I sometimes wonder if you ever regret not riding my dick when you had the chance. I mean that affectionately. You had full control. I just wouldn't have said no.

Anyway. I guess this is just me saying I miss what we were. And that I hope you're good. That you're happy. That someone out there knows the version of you I knew, and loves her well.

And maybe, just maybe, that you remember me with a smile. Or a blush.