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"You just disappeared."
As I read the message, I realized we hadn't texted in two years. The words stung because they were true. I'd disappeared, given up, and taken the easy way out. I had, in fact, ghosted one of my oldest friends.
She and I met in high school and instantly connected over our similar families and views on life. We weren't rule-breakers, controversy makers, or rebels. We simply were the coolest uncool kids.
We were committed to our alliance through college. We always made our friendship work with last-minute café sessions and video calls. We were the poster child(ren) of friendship: We mingled in each other's social circles, our parents loved us both equally, and we grinned at the occasional "Are you sisters?" question.
But then we became adults, and everything changed.
After my Master's, I wanted to dabble in different professions before choosing "the one." I wanted to experiment and explore all the options for me. That meant my life changed every month. There was always a new way to make money, a new "in-demand" skill to learn, or a (budget) trip to plan. While I embarked on "life-defining" journeys, my friend didn't. She pursued one dream and focused on that goal.
We stayed true to our meetings, but our conversations became one-sided. I shared, ranted, and unloaded. She listened. When I asked her how life was going, she'd say, "Oh, the usual." She was devoted to her studies. Understandably, her answer was the same for months.
The excitement and curiosity of our friendship withered away over time. I realized that the only reason we met anymore was because of our past. And that wasn't enough for me.
I loved having humorous, educational, or explorative conversations. My friend was no longer fulfilling that need.
Toward the end of our last meeting, she asked, "When should we meet next?" I said, "I don't know. I have a couple of deadlines lined up. I'll text you."
In my defense, I did have deadlines. But I wanted a break from our "catch-up" sessions to understand what changed between us.
As teens, we bonded over simplicity. Fifteen years later, nothing about my life was simple. I lived paycheck to paycheck — sometimes without it.
But my friend protected her peace and her pace. She had a goal that demanded her attention for years. While I rooted for her, I wanted to push her to try new things and have some fun. But I soon realized that was my need, not hers.
I wanted more from our friendship. I didn't just want her to listen to me; I wanted her to have the same excitement I had about life. I craved stimulating conversations about figuring life out. But she had sorted hers already, and it didn't feel right to ramble about my shenanigans when she didn't share hers.
The need to see her lessened because, for me, our meetings led to nothing — no laughs, no chit-chat, no contentment.
We had officially grown in opposite directions. We were friends, but we didn't have to keep going just for the sake of that tag. Accepting that you no longer share the same bond is a part of friendship, too.
Our last conversation was when she asked me to attend an event with her. I didn't know the artist, so I denied the invitation. She didn't reach out after that; we haven't spoken since.
As I saw her text now, two years later, I wondered if ghosting was the right way to end a 15-year friendship. But I had tried to make it work and communicate the shift in our friendship. After observing the same stagnant script of our meetings, I once asked her, "Why don't we have things to talk about?" She was confused.
Life, I wanted to say: How it's going for you, how it's going for me, our goals, our travel bucket list, how much money we want to make, how we plan to stay sane, and more.
But I didn't because she was right. There was nothing to say. So yes, it was time to disappear from a friendship that had run its course, even though I will always cherish what we once had.
