Is it better to be alone than to keep bad company?

I was jittery and paranoid constantly; I was scared of the fact I might let my secret slip out. I was scared of what would happen if I did, and I was scared that I wouldn't care. I was just scared.
In the end, my inside showed on my outside. I told her the secret. I confided in my best friend that we were faulty. She called me awful things, I was a disloyal bitch and a liar - and I was. I hadn't been honest. But I needed to hear those things to know I was doing right, and she needed to say them, if only to confirm that we had separated and that our path had forked. I would go on one way, she the other. Our hands were clasped right up until the last second, but we had fallen out of step a long time before. It took the precise cruelty borne of the utterly complete link between us to inspire the realisation. She and I knew which buttons to press in each other to make that link more and more tenuous until it severed. That was our relationship: in the end our blessing bit us back.

Sitting cross-legged, the same.

Our lives became one life. There was no me without her, or her without me, I don't think. We became a couple straightaway, and didn't stop being one until we stopped being anything. Our names were one word by the end.

We ran around town. We drank cider on sunny mornings, chai on quiet evenings, gin the rest of the time, and went to parties hosted by people we didn't know. At moody gigs we sat on the floor. We would live together as soon as we could. But only if I agreed to the explicit request we didn't also live with my beautiful friend. Sara. Sara was NOT ALLOWED. It wasn't too much to ask really, and three's a crowd anyway. I agreed with her. That was when her infection of me went septic.
She kissed my boy in a club. I smoked a cigarette and forgave her. I photographed her naked, she did the same for me. We both enjoyed the experience. Then, she visited my boy in the middle of the night. Wearing my dress.
I wanted to forgive her, and that made me realise I could not. I forgave her on the outside but not on the inside. And so it was for a while.

Irregular choice?

She remains the only person I have ever met to have brought me a cuppa at the bus stop. She also remains the only person I have ever met to have been cruel enough to have reduced me to tears in a university cafeteria. She was a very intriguing mix of things, Sophie was.
We had catchphrases, in-jokes, nicknames. And then we had one, blazing row. In the beginning I thought we would always be together, that that was how we belonged. Throughout the course of our obsession with eachother she did lots of things, and I did lots of things, to change my mind.

Oh God, I was head over heels. She was infectious: gruff, giggly, often rude, always in charge, a year older, refreshingly none the wiser for it, cool. I was in awe: trying hard not to be shy, just about able to decipher a camera, glittery with chunky jewellery, peroxide blonde. We fell for eachother, but I think it was some girl's shoes that sparked the initial attraction. It didn't matter then. We had met. We had connected like jigsaw pieces. We were very hard to separate; we were part of the same picture.