My best friend’s name is Megan. I met her in preschool and we were friends as little kids, but I don’t really remember that, except for how my sister peed on her porch and my brother pooped in her backyard on the same day.

The summer before eighth grade, I met her again. We connected pretty much instantly. We both liked fashion and good music and Rookie (I had just discovered it), we were both finding out about feminism, we both had problems with our sisters, and we both played instruments. I had never really known someone who had things in common with me before.

And then I moved and came to her school and met her friends. A few of them didn’t like me, but a couple did. And now I go to school with my best friend, so it doesn’t really matter how many friends I have.

I’ve always had trouble making friends and picking up on social cues. Having one close friend is the best, I’ve learned. When someone declares you Best Friend, it means you’re almost like family, and the friendship is nearly unconditional. It means that you understand both the vices and the virtues in each other and accept them.

I had always convinced myself that friendships like that don’t exist, that I’m not Lizzie McGuire, that I will never have a friend whose house I can walk into without knocking on the door or making plans. I never thought I could be comfortable around someone without scaring them away with my weirdness. Best friends are good like that.

We have sleepovers at least once a week, and we stay up late talking about school and family and boys and what we want in our lives. We listen to ABBA and do our hair in the bathroom together.

There was no specific event that sparked this diary—I’ve just been thinking about Megan and really appreciating her recently. She has way more friends than I do, and I don’t think I’m her only best friend, but that’s not really important. Friendship is not as overrated as I convinced myself it was. In fact, it’s pretty much the best thing ever. ♦