Childhood friend
Hi.
My name is Lara Mae Villanueva. I am ten years old, and I learned early that in this world, everyone has a story—but not everyone gets a happy beginning. Some stories even look the same, repeating pain like a habit no one wants to break.
This is my story.
The story of my teenage life.
It started on my first day of fourth grade.
I woke up before the sun did.
The sky outside our small window was still dark, and the air felt heavy and quiet, like the world was holding its breath.
I sat up quickly, excitement bubbling inside my chest.
Today was the first day of school, and all I could think about were Stella and Quenny.
I missed them so much during the break.
I wondered if they missed me too.
I hurried to the bathroom and turned on the faucet.
Cold water splashed against my skin, sharp and shocking.
I froze for a second, my hand hovering over the tap.
I hated cold baths.
They made me feel small and weak, like the world didn’t care if I was uncomfortable.
But I had no choice.
I stepped in anyway, hugging my arms around myself as my teeth chattered.
I told myself I had to be clean.
I didn’t want to smell bad at school.
I didn’t want another reason for people to look at me differently.
After drying off, I put on my uniform and brushed my hair carefully.
When I was done, I walked to my parents’ bedroom and knocked softly at first.
“Mom… Mom,” I whispered, then louder,
“Mom, can you make breakfast for me? I’m going to school.”
She groaned.
“Ugh, Lara, it’s too early,” she said, her voice full of annoyance.
“Mommm,” I pleaded.
She didn’t even glance at the clock.
Instead, the door opened just enough for her to look at me with tired, irritated eyes.
“Just cook your own food.”
She pushed me lightly out of the doorway and slammed the door shut, locking it.
I stood there for a moment, staring at the door like it might suddenly open again. But it didn’t.
I wasn’t surprised.
I was used to it.
If it were Renze, my older sister, my mom would already be in the kitchen cooking breakfast.
Renze was their favorite. Everyone knew it—even me.
She was pretty, smart, and talented. Her bedroom wall was filled with medals and trophies, shining reminders of how proud my parents were of her.
Mine was empty.
Sometimes I wondered what it felt like to be loved that way.
I cooked my own food in silence, the sound of oil sizzling the only thing keeping me company.
I ate alone, packed my bag, and walked to school by myself, my footsteps echoing on the road.
When I arrived at school, my heart started beating faster.
I hurried to my classroom, scanning the room eagerly.
And then I saw them—Stella and Quenny.
Relief washed over me.
I walked toward them quickly and sat behind their chairs.
“Hi, Stella. Hi, Quenny,” I said with a smile.
They turned to look at me.
Then, without saying a word, they stood up, moved to another seat, and began whispering to each other.
My smile faded.
Confusion twisted in my stomach.
I didn’t understand what I had done wrong. I stared at my hands, pretending not to care, pretending it didn’t hurt.
That was when I noticed someone sitting alone.
A boy I didn’t know.
Something about him made me curious—maybe it was the way he looked just as lost as I felt. I walked toward him and sat beside him.
“Hi,” I said softly. “I’m Lara.”
He smiled. “I’m—”
I didn’t know it then, but that simple introduction would change my life.
Our friendship grew quietly.
We started eating together, laughing during breaks, and sharing stories.
Sometimes I went to his place just to play and forget everything that hurt.
Day by day, I began to know him—not just his name, but his kindness, his patience, the way he listened like my words mattered.
For the first time, I felt seen.
Then, in fifth grade, everything changed again.
One afternoon, he told me his family was moving. His mother had found a job far away.
I smiled for him, but my chest ached.
That night, I cried into my pillow, holding the truth I already knew: everyone important in my life always left.
I wrote him a letter, pouring all the words I was too scared to say out loud.
The next day, after class, I handed it to him and hugged him tightly.
“Don’t forget me, okay?” I whispered.
“I won’t,” he said. “I’ll always remember you.”
Those were the last words I ever said to him.
And I didn’t know yet that this goodbye would stay with me longer than any hello.
