Friendship is so much harder in adulthood. As children, we're immersed in social environments—classrooms with twenty or more kids, grades packed with a hundred students, entire schools teeming with potential connections.You might play sports with kids from other schools. You know everyone’s older and younger siblings. Relationships surround you, almost suffocating in their proximity.
But adulthood? It’s different. Work becomes our primary social avenue, and even then chances for friendships are narrow. My last job had seven people total. Seven! And the likelihood of finding a genuine connection among those few was microscopic. In adulthood friendship becomes a deliberate act, not a natural byproduct.
I remember the first day I saw you—stocking books in that back room while I gathered supplies for the coffee shop. Something about you struck me immediately. You were beautiful and confident, radiating an energy that pulled people in. When you said hi to me, before I could muster the courage, I felt grateful for your notice.
Oh— I started writing a book.
We became inseparable. As an introvert, I needed an extrovert like you to crack open my carefully constructed shell, to drag me out of my apartment, to meet new people. You were the friend that did that for me while still supporting the quietude of my soul. You were a ray of sunshine cast on my shadows and the kind of person that showed me that romantic love isn’t the only thing that fuels a life. Sometimes the person most important to you, the person who makes you the best version of yourself is just a friend. We were classic chosen family. We were each other’s lifeline. Through college, through countless terrible boyfriends, through moments of deep uncertainty— you were the friend who made everything feel manageable, who could transform a potential disaster into a story worth laughing about later. I can only hope I created some of that for you too.
Did you hear that David got remarried?
But friendships, like everything else, evolve. Ours started to fray in subtle ways. I began noticing that maintaining our connection required constant effort from me. Every hangout, every conversation—I was the one initiating them. Texts, plans, check-ins: all came from my side. Maybe I was blind to this dynamic initially. Or maybe I noticed, but “us” was so important that I didn’t care. But eventually, the imbalance became impossible to ignore. Do you know what it feels like to be the only one to reach out? Probably not. Everyone loves you.
Eric got that big fancy job.
The distance between us grew incrementally. Your illness created the first real gap. Then my parenthood widened it further. If I look back I think your marriage—and its subsequent breakdown—became the final fracture. When things got tough for you, the silence was deafening. I understood, of course. When life becomes overwhelming and survival is the daily goal, community takes a back seat. But understanding that doesn't negate the hurt I feel.
Mikal joined cub scouts. He loves it.
One day, I made a decision. I wouldn’t text you anymore. I wanted to see if you missed me, if you cared about this friendship enough to reach out. And of course… you didn’t. After two years of not hearing from you, I deleted your number, a gesture that felt both painful and necessary. If I could not reach out, then what would happen? I already knew the answer. And if I’m honest, deleting your number wasn’t even about “seeing what would happen”. It was about being free of you.
Two years. Two. Years.
The last time I saw you was just before my accident— an event so significant that in my previous life, you would have been my first call. My first support. My first everything. You would have taken me to the hospital and visited twice with contraband food. But in this life, you have no idea what I've been through, what challenges I've faced. You have no idea that I almost died. If I had… would you ever even find out?
We finally put in that garden. It was nice to have tomatoes all summer.
My parents still ask about you sometimes. Their inquiries are met with my generic LinkedIn-sourced updates, professional trajectory, but nothing of substance. Nothing of the person they once considered a second daughter.
My mom has been sober for five years now.
I'm not entirely sure what I feel. Anger mingles with profound grief. I'm angry that you didn't care enough about our friendship— about me. Angry that I appear to be the one who cared more—a vulnerability that makes me look desperate and embarrassed. Why did I need you more than you needed me?
My cat died, by the way.
Even writing this, the urge to find you is strong. As if —just maybe— if I reached out one more time, things might be different. Maybe this time you’d care. Maybe you’re in a different phase of life where you might think me important again. But I know better. And… I love myself too much to hurt me again.
Probably.
Anyway, I hope that —wherever you are— that you’re well.