At the beginning of last year I received an email from someone I had not heard from in many years. Twentytwo years, to be precise. It was a friend I had lost touch with over the years; a best friend, in fact; someone I was so close with growing up that people often mistook us for sisters.
We met in primary school and were as tight as a sailor’s knot right up until university. Then, just like that, we lost touch. There was no dramatic ending. No sudden goodbyes. One day we were like glue, then we no longer were. Of course, it’s possible it wasn’t as sudden as I remember. Perhaps she had been pulling away for years, it’s just that I, being a bad friend, failed to notice.
In the absence of answers, I spent the past two decades assuming it was because of my inability to hang on to friendships that she walked away. I would not have blamed her. You see, there has always been a pattern to the majority of friendships in my life — if, indeed, you can call them that. They are short-lived but intense. This has left me aged 45 with a huge network of contacts but a dearth of people I would call true friends.
No fuss
For the past few decades there has only really been my friend Sam, whom I met at university, and whom I only see when she comes to stay once a year. We have a closeness that does not require phone calls and dinners out. We direct message on Instagram. It is an easy friendship, without expectations and minimal maintenance. The other is my best friend Will. But he’s my husband, so I’m not sure it counts.
This story is from the April 08, 2024 edition of WOMAN - UK.
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This story is from the April 08, 2024 edition of WOMAN - UK.
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