Dear Old Friend,
I don’t hate you. Sometimes, I wish I did—maybe that would make things easier. I’ve ended friendships before, and it was easy to walk away. You were even there for me when that happened. I remember you showing up with a bag of Jolly Ranchers. It felt random until you explained how they always lifted your mood, so you wanted me to feel that same comfort.
But now, that version of you feels like a stranger.
When I come home to the apartment we still share, it doesn’t feel like coming home to a friend. It feels like stepping into someone else’s space. You barely look at me as you rush to your room and close the door. Sometimes, I wonder what’s on the other side—do you ever feel regret? Sadness? I wish I didn’t have to see you every day.
When we signed that lease, you were still my best friend.
I always sensed your girlfriend didn’t like me. I’d catch her watching me, her eyes narrow, always keeping a distance. Our conversations stayed short, polite enough just to get by. I never really knew her, which I now think was intentional. She drew a circle around you, making sure I couldn’t get close to the life you two shared—a life in which, to her, I never really belonged.
When I look at my partner, I see someone who lifts me up and fills my life with warmth and light. She’d sit on the floor just so others could sit at the table. Her open heart makes me want to be my most authentic self. She encourages me to follow my path, even when it means we’re not always together. But I know she’s always there, steady as a shadow, supporting me no matter what.
When I look at you and your partner, I see something different.
She’s beside you constantly, filling every space you occupy—even your friendships. If she dislikes someone, so do you. If she feels strongly about something, so do you.
Months ago, I asked, “Why do you let people walk all over you?” I could see a version of myself in you, a version I was trying to leave behind. You’re an incredible guitarist, but lately, you’re a performer in your own life, playing out whatever role others need. When your dad pushed you to go back to college, you signed up for IT classes without hesitation, even though I saw reluctance in your eyes. When I asked if it was what you truly wanted, you couldn’t give me a clear answer. It was like what you wanted didn’t even matter to you anymore.
But I remember what you wanted because you told me.
“I want to teach guitar,” you said. I remember you on stage, so alive, your hair glowing under the lights. Your love for music radiated from each note. That’s the you I miss—the one who knew what he wanted with all his heart.
So why was it so easy to set aside your dreams for others? And why was it so easy to set aside our friendship?
To you, I’m just a leftover memory, an inconvenience in your new life. Every time you walk through the door, you look anywhere but at me.
But to me, you’re still the guy who taped pictures of Slash to my dad’s car tires just to joke that you’d “slashed” them. The guy who stood by me at shows, tearing through guitar solos. The guy who belted out Quiet Riot at karaoke, fist in the air. The guy who’d let me lean on his doorframe while I ranted about whatever bothered me.
But that guy has been gone for months now.
It’s hard to want you around when I can’t even recognize who you’ve become.
When your girlfriend made you choose between us, I told you I’d never ask you to make that choice. But in the end, you still chose her. You chose a relationship that isolates you, a bond that cuts you off from people who care about you. And you chose it over me.
I know I wasn’t always the best friend. I had my selfish moments, and maybe I didn’t always see things from your perspective. But when you started pulling away—leaving the band, barely being home, even buying your own groceries—I felt my anger grow; not because of those changes themselves but because I could feel you slipping away.
I remember celebrating my birthday with you, having to keep it a secret because your girlfriend would get upset if she found out. I couldn’t even openly be your friend. Why did I think we could stay friends long-term?
You were already halfway out the door, and deep down, I knew it. But a part of me held on, hoping the years we spent as friends might mean enough for you to fight for us.
Maybe that hope was naive. I thought the memories we shared—the laughter, the late nights, the moments that felt like home—would be enough to remind you of what we had. But here we are, strangers living side by side, each of us carrying different pieces of a friendship that’s already slipped away. I wish you well, truly, but I can’t keep holding space for someone who’s no longer here.
So this is me letting go.
Photo by Anna Shadricheva on Unsplash
