I did not choose him, he did not choose me

It doesn't seem right to say this to one's best friend but here it is; you are fucking retarded if you think he's changed.

He has changed! she chirped. Desperately wanting, needing to believe this lie is true.

If it's lies you want I can give them to you, I am just as masterful at deception as he.

He has changed, she asserts once again. Looking me directly in the eye this time in a challenging (yet futile) gesture.

The air thickens around us. I feel stuck to the spot but long to open the window and let in a fresh breeze. I'm suddenly scared of moving. The atmosphere is making movement difficult, it's too dense, too dark, too stifling.

We consider one another for a moment, drink in each other's gaze, try and put a spin on what the other is thinking. We are both saying to ourselves 'you are wrong, you are wrong, you are wrong' and directing this across the room - trying to penetrate the walls we've both built up with what we believe to be the truth. Walls that he and us created. Walls that seem strong enough to stand, unharmed, for a hundred years or more.

Eventually she speaks; he seemed different when I spoke to him. Like everything he'd been through had made him realise the stuff he needed to.

He's not different. He just knows what to say to persuade you of that. I think to myself.

Out loud I say, 'Ok'.

'Ok' she replies more forcefully. Emphasis on the 'kay' syllable.

This is obviously the way we must play it. We will both act out our parts impeccably, we will both say the lines we are meant to. We will never say a truly honest thing to one another again.