In one of my less-than-stellar moments in my agonizing sophomore year, characterized by some pretty intense depression and equally bad anxiety, I realized the true meaning of friendship and caring.

During my second block, I scrawled the same mantra on my hand, over and over and over again until the ink took up every available space on my translucent skin. “Once an addict, always an addict. Once an addict, always an addict. Once an addict, always a f***ing addict.”

I believed it.

As I went to third block, I turned around to talk to a friend of mine who sat behind me. My hands were on his desk as I twisted around.

“What’s that you’ve written on your hand?” he asked gently. He read it before I had the chance to pull my hand back into my lap, hide it under my sweatshirt sleeve. My favorite hiding spot. I took my other hand to rub the thick scars on the inside of my wrist, still red, raw, and fresh.

“Give me your hand.”

“Okay.”

“No, your other hand. Right hand.”

“But...”

“Please.”

I stretched out my clean right hand, skinny and translucent with small criss-crossings of veins. His pen scratched against my skin, not roughly enough to break it.

People can change.

I took my hand back and looked at it with tears welling up in my eyes. Met his. Looked back down.

“Remember that, okay?” he said kindly.

It was all I could do to nod.