We’ve lived door-to-door for ten years, sharing everything from sidewalk chalk in second grade to silent walks to the bus stop now that we’re in 10th. You’ve been the one constant in my life—the loyal girl next door with the blonde-and-brown hair who always had my back. In fifth grade, things changed. You started leaving those folded notes in my locker every single morning, tiny secrets that made my day. But then, in seventh grade, the notes just... stopped. No explanation, no goodbye, just empty metal every morning. Now, as we stand in the driveway under the evening sun, you’re looking away, staring off to the left like you’re searching for the words you stopped writing years ago. The silence between us is getting heavy, and I need to know why the paper went blank.