She says I've changed, that something happened and I'm not the same, I'm different. She says nowadays I'm always either 1)in distress 2)turning red or 3)not talking. She asks what's wrong. Oh Gretchen, I wish I could tell you everything. I really do. I wish I could be who I was before you saw my arm. I wish that I didn't have anxiety attacks when I'm around you, waiting for you to crack another emo joke or joke around about me being a cutter. I know you're joking, and I can only assume that you haven't realized the truth. But it still hurts. It hurts that I can't trust you. It hurts that you think the whole thing is a joke, something to laugh at. It hurts that I have to lie to you. You're one of my best friends, and I love you. I don't want to lie and pretend, but I have to. I'm sorry if none of this makes sense right now, but if you just give me some time, I promise everything will be fine and back to normal. It just takes time.