The future We Rehearsed

on friendship grief

I just saw a post I would’ve sent to them.

My thumb almost did what it always does before my mind remembered we don’t do that anymore.

It said,

“You’re my friend and, to some extent, my wife.”

I’ve been going through this wave of emotions for the past few months.

I’ll see something they’d like and think, if we were still together, I’d buy this for them.

I hosted an intimate dinner recently.

Mid-conversation, in between all the laughter and stories, my friends took turns talking about how we met and how our relationships have grown over the years. I did the same.

Looking around the table, I thought,

They would’ve looked so beautiful here.

Their makeup would’ve eaten.

Their outfit would’ve been perfect.

The photos.

And of course, they’d have a whole library of us.

But then I went…

Sighed.

Were they really my friends?

Was I really theirs?

One of the conversation cards I’d prepared for the dinner asked,

“What’s a version of yourself you’re still grieving?”

One of my closest friends said,

“Letting people go.”

I asked,

“Letting them go, or cutting them off?”

“All of them,” she said. “Moving on so fast. A part of me feels like I should’ve given more chances.”

I asked,

“Why is that something you grieve? Is there anyone you wish you hadn’t let go of?”

“Not necessarily,” she said. “Just that a little more grace would’ve been cool.”

“So what are you doing differently now?”

“I give more grace. Not by swallowing things, but by making it clear where the line is.”

“When you say more grace, do you mean you never gave it at all? Or you thought you did until one day you went full cliff—scraping fingers off your arm?”

She laughed and said, “Both.”

I was asking those questions, not because I was the host, but because she touched on something I know all too well.

I don’t give grace.

And for almost everyone I’ve let go of, I don’t think back.

They became wind.

They passed through my life and kept going.

But there were two people I never called my best friends.

I called them my sisters.

When I let them go, I made peace with never speaking to them again.

And God, I never stopped loving them.

I hope I never do.

I simply decided the kindest way I could love them was from afar.

The truth is, I’d always felt we weren’t walking toward the same life.

We’d spend entire nights talking about who we’d become and how we’d get there.

I still have those notes where I played secretary for our business plans.

The combs I took from their house after sleepovers.

The containers one of them made yogurt for me in.

I still have the dress I bought for the trip we never took.

We dreamt together.

Partied together.

We filled years with chats and plans and the romanticism of the future.

I was probably the only one who took those conversations as literally as I did.

Then we split.

Just like that.

Not because of one big thing.

Little disappointments.

Little dismissals.

Little things that seemed too small to matter until one day they weighed more than everything beautiful we’d built.

Friendship, to me, has always been simple.

You should be able to tell me I’ve hurt you.

I should listen.

You should be able to call me out.

I should become better because of it.

And when it’s my turn, I should trust you’ll do the same.

That’s the foundation every friendship I still have is built on.

But half of it is my fault.

I stopped mentioning the things that hurt.

I convinced myself they weren’t big enough to bring up.

I was always the one saying,

“They don’t know better. If they did, they’d do better.”

Or,

“Maybe they weren’t raised that way.”

So I let those little moments go.

Because life was already hard, and somehow being around them made it easier to breathe.

I didn’t tell them stuff about what I was carrying in my own personal life.

I’m not the type to.

Now that I think about it, I wasn’t vulnerable with them.

Maybe they never really knew when they were hurting me because I never really let them know when I was hurting.

So one day…

I just stopped.

Taking their calls.

Responding to their messages.

Now the bridge is burned.

I’ll stay a lighthouse.

Until the lights go off.

I’ll always see things they’d like.

Reels my thumb will stop itself from sending.

Posts that’ll remind me of us.

Places we promised we’d go that I’ll now visit without them.

Isn’t it strange?

I don’t think I’m grieving what ended us.

I think I’m grieving everything we were supposed to become.

The future we rehearsed so many times.

The conversations we’ll never have.

The versions of ourselves that only existed because we thought we’d grow into them together.

Not losing the person.

Losing the future.

…

I wonder if they still have our pictures.

I’ll always have ours.

~ zenstateofmindwriter