I was heartbroken when my mother told me I couldn’t go to the annual class picnic—it was simply too expensive. The next day, I mumbled to my best friend, 'You should go without me. I don’t even like waterparks. I’d just ruin the fun.' When the picnic was over, I saw my classmates return, tanned and beaming, their fingers wrinkled from hours in the pool. But my best friend looked exactly the same. "I forgot the picnic was yesterday," he said, shrugging off a classmate’s teasing. Then, turning to me, he added with a smile, "There’s no picnic without you by my side." His words carried no resentment, only quiet loyalty. I had lied to spare his joy, but he had stayed to spare mine.
