If Not for You: A Story of Friendship, Envy, and Forgiveness

“If you hadn’t come tonight, maybe none of this would’ve happened,” Veronica’s voice was sharp, her eyes rimmed red. The fluorescent lights of the hospital waiting room flickered above us, humming their cold, indifferent song. I stared at the floor, my hands shaking in my lap, replaying the night’s events in my mind like a torturous movie I couldn’t pause.

Veronica and I had been inseparable since kindergarten—the kind of friends who finish each other’s sentences and laugh at jokes nobody else gets. We grew up together in the suburbs of Columbus, Ohio. In elementary school, we’d take turns on the tire swing in her backyard, sharing peanut butter sandwiches and secrets. But somewhere between braces and prom dresses, things changed.

She became beautiful in a way that made people stop and stare. Her hair curled in effortless waves; her smile pulled people in like a magnet. I stayed plain, forgettable, my brown hair never shining quite right, my jokes always a beat too late.

By sophomore year, every guy wanted Veronica’s number, and girls wanted to be her friend. I was still there—her sidekick, her confidante, the one who made her laugh when her parents fought or when a date stood her up. But I started to feel invisible, like a shadow trailing behind her. I hated myself for it. I hated that every time someone compared us, I felt smaller, less.

One Friday night, Veronica insisted we go to a party. “Come on, Olivia, you need to loosen up!” she pleaded, tugging at my sleeve. I hesitated, looking back at my phone, my dad’s text popping up: “Don’t stay out too late.” But I agreed, as I always did, because I was afraid of what being left behind would feel like.

The party was loud, the air thick with cheap perfume and spilled beer. Veronica glided through the crowd, pulling me along. We ended up in the kitchen, where her new boyfriend, Tyler, handed her a red plastic cup. She giggled, whispering something in his ear. I stood awkwardly, pretending to scroll through my phone.

“Why don’t you ever talk to anyone?” Veronica asked, her words slurring just a little.

“I just… parties aren’t really my thing,” I muttered, wishing I could disappear.

“God, Liv, you’re so uptight. Just have fun. For once.”

Her words stung. I knew I was boring. I knew I wasn’t the one people noticed. But hearing it out loud, from her, felt like a slap. I stormed out onto the porch, blinking back tears, only to find Tyler waiting there, alone.

“Hey,” he said, offering me a beer. “You okay?”

We talked for a while—about school, music, the pressure to fit in. He was surprisingly easy to talk to, and for a moment, I forgot how out of place I felt. But then Veronica came out and saw us together. Her face twisted with something I’d never seen before—anger, maybe, or fear.

“So this is what you do?” she spat. “Steal my boyfriend when my back’s turned?”

“No, Ronnie, it’s not like that—”

But she wasn’t listening. She stormed back inside, Tyler trailing after her, leaving me rooted to the spot. I wanted to go home, but my ride was gone, so I called my dad, swallowing my pride as I asked him to pick me up at midnight.

The next week at school was hell. Veronica ignored me, gossip spreading like wildfire. People whispered in the hallways, and I felt their stares burning holes in my back. When I tried to talk to her, she brushed me off.

“You wouldn’t understand,” she hissed. “You never do.”

That night, she didn’t come home. Her mom called me, panicked. “Liv, do you know where Veronica is? She’s not answering her phone.”

I didn’t, but guilt clawed at my chest. I spent the night awake, replaying every word, every look. The next morning, we got the call—Veronica had been in a car accident. She’d taken her mom’s old Toyota, speeding down Route 23, and crashed. She was alive, but in surgery, her future uncertain.

Now, sitting in the hospital, I wondered if our fight had driven her to this. If I’d been a better friend, would she have called me instead of getting behind the wheel? Veronica’s mom sat across from me, her face pale and drawn.

“You girls always had each other,” she said softly. “Don’t lose that.”

Hours passed. When the doctor finally came out, his face was grave but hopeful. “She’ll recover,” he said. Relief flooded me, followed quickly by shame.

When Veronica woke up, I was there. She looked at me, tears streaming down her face. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I just… I thought you didn’t need me anymore.”

I took her hand, my own tears falling. “I always needed you. But I need to be someone on my own, too.”

We cried together, the past few weeks of pain and jealousy melting away. It wasn’t perfect after that. We both had scars—physical and emotional. But we learned how to talk, how to listen, how to forgive.

Sometimes I still wonder: if I hadn’t gone to that party, if I’d spoken up sooner, would things have been different? Or did we need to break to learn how to put ourselves, and our friendship, back together? What do you think—is forgiveness worth it, even after everything?