Two Kinds Of Friend
Lena phoned Hanna — her old Hanna, four hundred miles away — that evening.
"Was today okay?"
"It was okay."
"Did anyone talk to you?"
"A girl across the lane. Pia. She's nice."
A small pause.
"That's good, Lena."
Hanna's voice was a little tight. Lena heard it. She recognised it because she had felt it in her own throat for weeks.
"I miss you," Lena said.
"I miss you," said Hanna.
There was a longer silence.
"Lena. It's going to be different now. We won't see each other every day."
"I know."
"And you'll have new friends and so will I. That's how it works. Mum told me. She said when she moved as a kid, she still wrote to her old friends, but the friendships changed. They went from being everyday friends to being long-distance friends. The everyday-ness moved to the new town."
"Is that — okay?"
"It has to be okay. Mum says it doesn't mean we love each other less. It means love changes shape sometimes."
Lena thought about this for a long while.
"Hanna?"
"Yeah?"
"You're still my best friend."
"You're still mine."
"Forever?"
"Forever. Just from far away now."
After they hung up, Lena sat at her bedroom window. Across the lane, Pia's window was lit. Pia was visible at her desk doing homework.
Lena put her palm to her own window.
A moment later, Pia looked up. Saw her. Put her palm to hers.
Lena thought about Hanna at the same time. About both of them, the