The Friendship That Never Really Became...

There is a peculiar kind of grief

that no funeral prepares you for.

No casket.

No flowers.

No condolences whispered at your door.

Just a conversation

that slowly fades into silence,

while your heart keeps showing up

to a place

that no longer exists.

I have learned

that you can mourn someone

who is still alive.

Not because they died…

But because the version of them

you believed would walk beside you

never had the chance to be born.

I wasn’t grieving

what we were.

I was grieving

the loss of what I hoped

our friendship could have become.

The late-night conversations

that never happened.

The inside jokes

that never had time to exist.

The afternoons

where laughter would’ve replaced silence.

The comfort of knowing

that no matter how heavy life became,

there would always be one person

who simply understood.

Instead…

I found myself

holding to a memory 

that barely had enough time

to become a memory at all.

The cruelest part

is that I never wanted perfection.

I never expected saving.

I wasn’t asking someone

to carry my wounds.

I only hoped

they would walk beside me

while I carried them myself.

Because vulnerability

isn’t saying,

“Please fix me.”

It’s whispering,

“Here…

this is the part of me

I usually hide.

Please be gentle.”

I handed someone

the softest pieces of my heart.

Not because they asked.

Because I believed

they would protect it

the way I would’ve protected theirs.

And maybe…

they truly wanted to.

Maybe life was heavier

than they ever admitted.

Maybe healing demanded

a solitude

I could never compete with.

Maybe every reason they gave me

was true.

But truth

doesn’t make heartbreak

hurt any less.

Because understanding someone

doesn’t erase

the ache

of not being understood.

I kept wondering

if they ever realized

that while they were afraid

of being vulnerable…

I already was already vulnerable.

Every smile.

Every conversation.

Every tiny act of kindness.

Every imagined tomorrow.

Every hope.

Every piece of me

that quietly believed,

“This could become

one of the safest friendships

I’ve ever known.”

And then…

it wasn’t.

So now

I grieve something

that never fully existed.

A future

built from possibility.

A friendship

still unfolding

inside my imagination.

The version of us

that never got the chance

to grow.

People say

time heals.

Maybe it does.

But I think

time really teaches us

how to carry the absence.

How to smile

while missing someone

who isn’t gone and was never there.

How to bless someone

from afar

while quietly gathering

the pieces of yourself

they never meant to break.

And perhaps

the hardest lesson of all

is this:

You can hold someone’s heart

and still accept

that they cannot hold yours.

Because no matter

how deeply I care,

I deserve someone

who can meet my vulnerability

with the same openness

that I offered them.

Someone

who doesn’t retreat

when your heart

steps into the light.

Someone

who understands

that tenderness

isn’t a burden…

it’s a gift.

So I will let this friendship

become what it was always destined to be—

a beautiful chapter, that will always be 

unfinished.

I will fold its pages gently,

place them among the stories

that shaped me,

and whisper

one final goodbye

to the life

I imagined we might have shared.

Not because I stopped caring.

But because love—

whether romantic,

or friendship—

should never require

someone to abandon themselves

while waiting

to be chosen.

And perhaps…

that is the bravest kind of friendship.

The kind

that opens its hands,

lets go,

and still wishes

the their soul

peace.