I had a friend, a childhood friend. His name was Diego. I remember him sitting at the edge of my dischevelled bed and smiling at me as I got up, looking as if I'd been attacked by bush-knives. When I got a zit, he'd sing a song about pimples which gave me the hysterics, despite my previous groans. He saw me on my worst days, looking like a total frump, but he never uttered a word to hurt me.
The jovial smile I got from him was home, it was so warm, so familiar. It was mine.
So many memories, so many laughs and tears. I'd sit next to him and blab about what a terrible day I'd gone through. I'd tell him my crazy, legendary stories. I'd tell him my happy moments. And he did the same. We shared so much.
I remember crying at a ruin of events, I swelled up and became red and wet, but the only thing he did, was try to make me smile. When we fought pettily, the rush of forgiveness that followed could be unmatched.
The world through his melted gold eyes was a happy place. A place I loved to be in. He understood the crazy girl that I was, by being the crazy guy too. And when I felt that there was no one else, he was there. He read my language.
He was the perfect friend. He was my best friend.
I fell in love with Diego, and I never told him. I never will... Because now he's gone.
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