I suppose that means you don’t want any band-aids, either,” I said, a touch more bitterly than I’d meant to.

I bundled in my own blanket and reflected on the strange and somewhat unexpected friendship that was slowly developing between Davin and myself. It was clear to me that he needed a friend, but for reasons unknown to me, thought that it was better for him to be alone.

I got through it, and I wore it like a badge of honor—I Can Be Alone and it's Okay.

I Can Be Alone and it's Okay.

When the moment shifts, and you realize you don't actually want to be alone, that underneath the bravado is an ache that won’t quite fade away, you’re not only aware of how lonely you are, but how much you've been lying to yourself.

I had always thought that I was fine with being alone. Halfway through high school, I moved from Brazil to America, and it took me forever to make friends. I had culture shock of virtually every kind, besides which I was awkward, geeky, and shy. So I ate alone, telling myself that it was fine while I watched other people have normal conversations with their friends.

It was nice. Even in high school, I’d mostly had makeshift friends forged by the shared status of outcast. It was rare for me to discuss things so easily to someone outside of my family, but somehow Jill got me.

If he can’t handle it, then you aren’t very good friends, are you?

If you want to call it quits, just tell me. Man up and say it to my face. Don’t just skulk around.