We were best friends since as early as I could remember. We grew up together. We were next door neighbors. We shared each other’s deepest secrets.

When I was thirteen, we made a pact: If we were still single by the time we were 30, we’d marry each other. 

Today was my thirtieth birthday.

I was single. I knew he was single too.

But we were no longer best friends, and a part of me knew that he hated me.