Grace left on a Thursday without telling Maya she was going.
She'd known for weeks — the family had decided, the new school was arranged — but every time she'd tried to say it, the moment had passed.
Maya found out from someone else on the Friday morning.
She felt two things at once: the loss of Grace, and the sting of not being told.
She texted. Grace replied immediately, too quickly, in a way that showed she'd been waiting. Lots of apologies. Explanations that were also, slightly, excuses.
Maya read them twice.
She replied honestly: I understand why it was hard to say. But I wish you'd told me. I would have wanted to say goodbye properly.
Grace went quiet for a day. Then: I was scared you'd be upset.
Maya considered this. Then: I was upset. But I would have been less upset if you'd trusted me with it. That's what you do with people you're close to.
The conversation that followed was the most honest they'd had in their three years of friendship. About things that had been hard to say. About times they'd each felt unseen or unheard or like the friendship was slightly one-sided. Things that would have caused a fight if said badly, but landed differently when said with care.
They didn't stop being friends.
But they became different friends. More careful. More direct.
Maya thought about it sometimes. How the thing Grace had been afraid to say had led them to say everything else.
Honesty, she decided, was uncomfortable the way exercise was uncomfortable. Worth it. But it required choosing.