We were best friends since as early as I could remember. We grew up together. We were next door neighbors. We shared each other’s deepest secrets. When I was thirteen, we made a pact: if we were still single by the time we were 30, we’d marry each other.
Today was my thirtieth birthday. I was single. I knew he was single too.
But we were no longer best friends, and a part of me knew that he hated me.