The Slow Fade of Friendship

He remembered that last week with such clarity because it played so frequently in his memory that he could accurately map out every detail of what happened, even the things he didn’t notice at the time now seemed prominent in his memories. Those memories were so poignant and had now become a part of him, a part of the fabric that defined his existence. Ten years or so later, he could still close his eyes and reminisce on that week and be filled with the whole spectrum of emotion: joy, elation, dread, perplexion, acceptance, and, most importantly, understanding. Even while strong, those memories were also an ugly detail, a blot in his love feasts, a blemish on a canvas that derives its beauty from plainness, a weight on his heart.

Why? Because that week was the last time his best friend was his best friend. They didn’t fall out in any sense, and neither did one perform any heinous acts that would alienate or disgust the other. Their brotherly love had been so pure that it was unimaginable they would fight over anything. But there was a more ruthless monster lurking behind the curtain, ready to snatch what they knew between them as perfect. And that monster was time, the slow marching of time, which had steadily strangled what they knew as precious.

About that week, like they instinctively knew it was the last time, they had committed to making that trip to that raised concrete slab at the community canteen that overlooked the town field where children ran about, a beehive of activity. Yonder from the concrete slab was the view of the city in all its magnificence. For five days of that week, they had made that trip without fail, and as soon as they had settled, they chatted on a spectrum of topics until early in the night when the cold became unbearable. They were 17, having been friends since they were 4. And it was now unthinkable that the time when they were supposed to consolidate their friendship was when it fizzled out; the candle was always in the wind.

That week ended like any other; they had both left for different schools, knowing that the holidays would confer them the same opportunity to commune. But life didn’t work like that; the clutter builds up, new memories are made as the old are pushed back to near oblivion, the familiarity becomes a strangeness, and an uneasiness. And when you get back together, you realize you are no longer the best friends. Why? Because you are not even the same people who met on that concrete slab a year ago. You try to brush off the clutter that has built up, but something has changed; the jokes that were funny are no longer funny, the view from the concrete slab has changed too. The children running about on the field, even those aren’t there anymore because the field was repossessed and gazetted.

By the end of the conversation between the new, morphing personalities, he realized something was amiss. A few meetings later confirmed that the feeling was mutual, and just like that, without conflict or struggle, the pin-sized hole became a gaping hole, and the chasm widened. The clutter only mounted, and the monster called ‘growing up’ enveloped the former best friends. Ten years later, they had only spoken about five times and not once in the last five years. He couldn’t tell when it exactly happened, but that friendship had left them swallowed by the slow marching of time, and with every second, widening that chasm and making it even more impossible to rekindle that flame.

They are not enemies, but they are also not friends. They would both first hesitate to answer if they were asked about the friendship, and he doesn’t know anything more sad. But he now understands; that’s life, that’s time, and how brutally it can crush what is precious. For now, he hopes his friend, whom he once knew, is alive and well, but would he pick up the phone to find out? The answer is closer to a no than a yes.