There are nights I sit with my phone in my hand. I hover over a name I haven’t dialed in years.
A name that once meant everyday. A voice I used to hear more than my own family’s. A friend who saw me at my worst, celebrated me at my best, and stuck around through all the in-between. But now? They’re a memory I scroll past. A mere social media follow, but a ghost that still lives in the details of who I became.
I miss them. But I don’t say it because too much time has passed. Because I wouldn’t even know what to say if they answered. Because I’m not sure if they’d want to hear from me at all.
But the ache is still there.
There’s a part of me that would give anything to rewind. Not to stay there forever. Just for one more night. One more late-night diner run after the club. One more night on the stoop talking for hours about girls, God, family, our dreams. One more night reminiscing about the inside jokes we shared that no one else understood.
We talked about life like we knew what we were doing.
But life has a way of scattering people like leaves in the wind.
Careers. Moves. Relationships. Breakups. Ego. Trauma. Growth. Misunderstandings. Silence. Time.
We went our separate ways, thinking maybe we’d loop back eventually. But eventually never showed up. And now we’re strangers who used to be everything to each other. People I once read without words now feel like a language I forgot how to speak.
Still, I wonder about them.
Where they ended up.
Who they’re with.
If they ever think about us.
The “us” that felt like family.
The “us” that had each other’s backs.
The “us” that hurt from laughing so hard at things that wouldn’t even make sense anymore.
The “us” that never thought we’d ever drift apart.
We did, though.
Everyone does.
No one warns you that when you’re making those golden memories that you’re actually living your good old days. And it’s never announced when it’s ending.
One day, you just don’t talk as much.
Then not at all.
Then they’re gone from your present, but tattooed into your past.
And it leaves you wondering:
Could we have stayed close if we tried harder?
Did they move on without a second thought?
Do I matter to them the way they still matter to me?
It’s such a raw, aching feeling- missing someone who’s still alive, still out there, just not here. Not with you. And maybe never will be again.
But the love doesn’t leave. Not really.
It just lingers in the background.
Unspoken. Permanent.
I think about reaching out sometimes. Typing a simple, “Hey, been thinking about you.”
But I always second-guess.
What if they’ve changed too much?
What if I have?
What if it just feels forced?
But then again, what if they’re waiting on me to make the first move?
What if they’re hovering over my name the same way I’m staring at theirs?
What if all it takes is one message to reopen a door we both secretly want to walk through?
I don’t know.
I’ve come to accept that friendships aren’t always meant to last forever. Some are seasonal. Others are sacrificial. And a few, very few, are lifers. But each one leaves a mark. Each one shaped me. And even the ones that hurt? I’m still grateful. They taught me how to love better. They taught me where my boundaries are. They taught me who I am when I care, and who I become when I’m hurt.
I think we all carry that quiet wish that maybe, one day, we’ll all just hang again. Not because things will be exactly like they were. But just to feel, even for a second, that closeness again. That effortless brotherhood. That pure, unfiltered joy of just being around people who really knew you.
But I do know this:
The people we shared our soul with never really leave us.
They show up in the way we speak. In the way we comfort others. In the music we still play on repeat. In the way we laugh at jokes nobody else gets.
They were home. For a time. And just because we outgrew the house doesn’t mean we didn’t love living there.
And maybe you can’t go home again, but sometimes, it’s enough to know it existed. That once upon a time, you were there. That you laughed like that. That you were loved like that. That you belonged somewhere, if only for a season.
Maybe one day, we’ll all find our way back- older, wiser, humbler. Maybe we won’t. But either way, I hope they know they mattered. That those years weren’t forgettable. That we made something beautiful in our chaos. That I still carry it. Still carry them.
So if you’re reading this and thinking about someone from your past:
Reach out.
Or don’t.
But let yourself feel it.
The love. The loss. The nostalgia.
Because it means it was real.
And real is rare.
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