There are moments in life when you meet someone who feels like a rare gem—someone who just gets you with no pretense or hidden agenda. And when you lose someone like that, it’s not like a romantic breakup with drama, crying, or Taylor Swift on repeat (okay, maybe one song). It’s this quiet, aching sadness that lingers in the background, like a little space left open, waiting for them to show up for lunch or that banter-filled phone calls you always looked forward to.
I met my friend years ago, and from day one, I was captivated by his intelligence. He was an electrical and component engineer, and even though I couldn't always understand his world, I admired it. He read my books, offered feedback, and seemed genuinely interested in my life as a writer. We bonded over the weirdest things—philosophy, politics, even religion. I’m a Christian; he’s an atheist. And somehow, that made our conversations even more electric. We didn’t need to convince each other to see things our way; we just respected that we both had different, yet oddly complementary, views on life.
Our regular hangouts felt like tiny escapes from the chaos of single parenting. Both of us have daughters around the same age, and we'd swap stories about the highs and lows of raising teens while trying to keep up with our own lives. Between his travel schedule and my rapid-fire book release strategy, we prioritized seeing each other as often as possible, sharing anything from a quick lunch to a dinner stretching late into the night. He was my sounding board, my “I-can-say-this-and-you-won’t-judge-me” person, my friend who I knew would give it to me straight but always with compassion.
Then, earlier this year, he met someone. As a friend, my first reaction was to be thrilled for him. He deserved happiness and finding someone to share your life with. That’s not easy. She seemed to bring him joy, and I could see how much he wanted this relationship to work. Our dinners turned into breakfasts at his request, but I brushed it off. Life changes, right? People change. Priorities shift.
But I didn’t expect it to be the end of us as friends.
One morning, he dropped the bombshell. She’d asked him to end all friendships with women, including me. He seemed pained as he told me, torn between wanting to build something lasting with her and not wanting to hurt me. We both knew our friendship had always been platonic. We never looked at each other as anything but friends—who laughed, argued, and shared a mutual respect that made our bond easy and natural.
The goodbye was hard, awkward even. He tried to assure me that he didn’t agree with her request but wanted to see if this relationship could be his future, a chance to merge their families and build a life together. How could I stand in his way? I couldn’t. I knew it was something he truly wanted, and as a friend, I wanted him to find his happiness. But I would be lying if I said the loss didn’t leave a void, an ache that has been hard to shake.
Losing a friend who’s played such a big role in your life feels like misplacing a piece of yourself. It’s this strange grief that is hard to explain. It's not as devastating as being left at the altar or as soul-crushing as divorce but quieter and more subdued, a hurt that still stings and takes time to fade.
I know he’s trying to build something meaningful with her, something lasting, and I respect that. I do. But a part of me wonders if she realizes how much she’s asking him to sacrifice. Friendships, genuine friendships, don’t come along every day. And when you find that person who truly “gets” you, who sees you for all you are and embraces it unconditionally, that’s worth holding onto.
But I guess the lesson in all this is that people’s lives change, sometimes in ways we can’t control. I’ll cherish the countless lunches and dinners, the museum visits and the endless debates, the encouragement he gave me with my writing, and those conversations that left me thinking long after he’d gone. I wish him well, genuinely.
Maybe one day, she’ll understand that friendships like ours don’t threaten relationships—they enrich them. Until then, I’m left with memories, an ache, and the quiet hope that he’s truly happy. And if our paths cross again, I’ll be there, friend to friend, ready for another lively conversation.
