You were addicted to marijuana. I was working at Burger King. We were free spirits stuck in a naïve town of holier-than-thou prudes. The year was 2009, and we were juniors in high school.

I’ll admit I never found you particularly attractive. Your teeth looked like yellow moose antlers crammed into a septic pipe. Braces didn’t help; they only added more material to an overstuffed mouth.

But I’m not one to judge. I had braces, too.

In 2009 not much mattered, anyway, besides having fun and getting good enough grades to stay out of trouble. My parents wanted me to achieve, but as long as I got into college they were happy. Your parents were slightly stricter, but they left you behind with enough money during their “grown-ups-only” vacations that you could buy whatever you wanted. I guess that’s how the addiction started.

“Tee hee,” you’d giggle while holding what looked like a giant bag of spices and seasonings. “Let’s play Frisbee with the dog!” I’d happily oblige, though disturbed by your change in behavior. You always did seem different after getting your big green bag. I just didn’t know you were smoking drugs.

I’m not sure what the tipping point for our relationship was. I do know that you broke my heart—shattered it into a kajillion, glimmering pieces—with your callousness and dismissiveness. “Want to go to the movies?” I’d ask, chocolate milk in hand. “I hear the new Harry Potter was just released. Whaddya say?”

“No,” you’d reply, looking at me through red eyes with a lopsided grin. “Do I look like a freaking nerd to you?”

We reached the point of no return long before I realized it. Our conversations were different; our dynamics askew. I woke up, so to speak, too late. You had changed.

You’re still addicted to marijuana. I’m now writing for Odyssey. The year is 2017, and we’re living very different lives.