Our Story

Blue Crayons

When I was eight, Liza moved next door with a box of crayons and a broken doll. She knocked on my door and said, “My doll’s arm fell off. Can you help me fix her? I’ll share my blue crayon—its my favorite.” That blue crayon became our symbol: we drew everything with it—houses, trees, two girls holding hands under a rainbow.

We made a promise that day, sitting on my front porch: “We’ll be best friends forever. Even when we’re old ladies with white hair, we’ll still draw with blue crayons and fix broken dolls.”

For ten years, that promise was our whole world. We shared the same lunch every day (she hated tomatoes, I hated lettuce—perfect match). We stayed up all night talking about crushes who didn’t notice us, about running away to a beach where the sand was blue, about how we’d never let anyone come between us.

Then came our senior year of high school. Liza got accepted into the art school she’d dreamed of her whole life. I didn’t get into any of my choices—not even the local one.

“I’m so happy for you,” I said to her the day she got her letter. But my voice was tight, and I could feel something ugly growing in my chest—jealousy, sharp as a needle.

She didn’t see it. “We’ll visit every weekend! You can come stay with me in the dorms, and we’ll draw on the walls, just like we did in your room.”

But I didn’t want to visit. I wanted to be there with her. So I started pulling away. I stopped answering her texts. I made excuses to miss her going-away party. The last time I saw her before she left, she was standing at the bus stop with her art supplies, holding a new blue crayon.

“For you,” she said, handing it to me. “To remind you we’re still best friends.”

I took it, but I didn’t look at her. “Yeah. See you later.”

“Later,” she said, but her voice broke.

She left that day, and I didn’t call. For months, she texted me—about her classes, about the friends she was making, about how much she missed me. I replied with one-word messages: “Cool.” “Nice.” “Busy.” Eventually, the texts stopped.

A year later, I saw her on social media—smiling in a photo with three other girls, all holding blue crayons. The caption said: “My new best friends. Forever.” I felt like I’d been punched in the chest. I took the blue crayon she’d given me and threw it in the trash.

Three years passed. I’d gotten into a community college, made new friends—but none of them knew about the blue crayons, about the beach with blue sand, about the promise we’d made. I tried not to think about Liza, but every time I saw a blue crayon, my throat tightened.

Then one day, my mom knocked on my door. “Honey, there’s a package for you. From Liza’s mom.”

My hands shook as I opened it. Inside was a box of blue crayons—dozens of them—and a letter. It was from Liza’s mom:

“Dear Claire, I’m so sorry to tell you this. Liza got into a car accident last week. She didn’t make it. She had this box of crayons in her bag—she told me she was going to send them to you, to ‘fix things.’ She kept a journal, and on every page, there’s a drawing of two girls holding hands. One is labeled ‘Liza,’ the other ‘Claire.’ She never stopped waiting for you to call.”

I dropped the letter. The crayons spilled all over the floor, blue as the sky the day she left. I knelt down and picked one up, and I started to cry—so hard my whole body shook. I cried for the blue crayon I threw away. I cried for the texts I didn’t answer. I cried for the promise we broke, not because we wanted to, but because I was too proud to say I was hurting.

That night, I went to the beach—our beach, the one we’d dreamed of with blue sand. It wasn’t blue, of course. It was just ordinary sand, under an ordinary sky. I sat down and took out one of the blue crayons, and I drew two girls holding hands in the sand. I labeled them “Liza” and “Claire.” Then I drew a third girl—no, wait, three more girls—standing next to them. Liza’s new friends.

I realized then that Liza had kept her promise. She’d found people to be best friends with forever. But I’d lost mine. Not because she left, but because I pushed her away.

Now, every time I eat a sandwich, I leave out the tomatoes and lettuce—old habits die hard. I keep a box of blue crayons on my desk, and every day, I draw two girls holding hands. There’s always an empty chair next to me when I draw. It’s for Liza. She’ll never sit in it again, but I’ll never stop saving it for her.