When the Dragon Reared Her Head

A friendship’s journey through childlike wonder and the pain of growing up.

When I was eight years old, I could do a breathtaking dragon’s roar.

I would bolt to the top of a playground slide, take a deep breath, and let all of the air out of my lungs and vocal chords, imagining that fire was coming out of my mouth instead.

Whenever I looked down, my best friend Lauren* would always return my grin.

We were huge fans of the novel Eragon by Christopher Paolini. The titular protagonist was a boy who finds a dragon egg that hatches. Our favourite game was pretending to be Eragon and his dragon Saphira, and we’d go on wild imaginary adventures. Flapping my arms, they turned into wings that spanned the length of an entire room. The blue sweater I was wearing would turn into reflective dragon scales before my eyes.

Like me, Lauren loved disappearing into a good book. We would always talk about our favourite stories and somehow the plot would work its way into our playtime. The vivid scenes we’d create together were fuelled by magic within well-thumbed pages.

But the magic in our heads was no match for the power of peer pressure.

The Battle Ground of Fitting In

Fifth grade. We’re both ten years old now.

I still dreamed of dragons coming to life from books I’d read, but I noticed Lauren’s mind was elsewhere these days. She was hanging out with Mandy*, a popular girl who was a year older than us.

Soon they were inseparable, and I found myself being left behind. They shared inside jokes I didn’t know the context to, laughed at things I didn’t find funny. Then their laughter was directed at me.

Why did I dress like a toddler? Why were my parents so strict? Why didn’t I have a cell phone yet?

Every comment they made drove in the fact that I didn’t belong. I couldn’t wish away or imagine the hurt I was feeling. When I tried to confront them about how I was being treated, I was dismissed as being too sensitive.

Lauren had shape-shifted into a dragon rearing her head, and I was at her mercy.

When we entered middle school, we were barely speaking to each other. Our interactions mostly consisted of cold retorts and icy glares.

Then Lauren transferred to another school at the end of sixth grade, marking a definitive end to the chapter of our friendship.

The Healing Power of Time

My family moves from Hong Kong to Canada once I’ve finished ninth grade. Months turn into years, turning like the pages of the books that I still love reading.

Social media becomes a thing and I stumble across Lauren’s Instagram and Twitter profiles. Enough time has passed to turn the white-hot pain of our friendship ending into a distant memory, so I hit the follow button. I see pictures of a smiling face that I know all too well, but at the same time is a stranger to me now.

We like each other’s photos from half a world away, offering congratulations on graduations and happy birthday greetings when prompted by Facebook notifications.

Truth is though, I could never forget her birthday. Even after all these years, her birthdate and phone number is ingrained in my deep subconscious. That information is embedded in my memory from a time when we didn’t have phones that kept track of dates and numbers for us.

The Art of Starting Over

More years pass. I’m 24 years old now, back in Hong Kong for a visit. I come across a photo Lauren has posted on social media, and somehow I find myself sending her a message asking whether she’d like to meet for dinner.

Heya! Yeah of course, I’d love to meet up! When are you free?

I blink at her reply in surprise for a few seconds, then type a response.

A few days later, I’m waiting for her at the restaurant. This will be my first time seeing her in person since our friendship disintegrated in sixth grade, so to say I’m a bundle of nerves is an understatement.

She walks in and greets me warmly. As our food starts to arrive, so do the words we have to say to each other. They tumble out of our mouths slowly at first, then they don’t stop. We only had 13 years of catching up to do, after all.

We talk about our lives, our careers, our boyfriends. We reminisce about our time playing together growing up. The conversation flowed continuously like a river. Before I knew it, three hours had gone by and we were the last people in the restaurant.

The entire time, I remember thinking to myself, “There’s a reason why we used to be friends.”

I try my hardest to remember why I was so angry. But the tendrils of the memory are wispy and blurred by years of distance.

Eventually I bring it up and say, “I know that the last time I saw you, we weren’t on the best terms.”

Lauren nods thoughtfully and responds, “Yeah. I used to think you were too sensitive, but I’ve stepped back and realized I was insecure too.”

“At that age,” she continued, “you’re desperate to fit in and say things you don’t mean.”

And with that realization, the fire of our friendship was rekindled. Time had melted away the anger and pain of the loss of our childhood friendship and built a new one. We still keep in touch to this day, and I love talking to her about my new favourite books.

We may not be pretending to be dragons anymore, but I know we’ll both spread our wings in this world and fly.

• Names have been changed.