Every time the door closes behind her, there’s a part of me that breaks.
L. just left.
Her glass of water lingers on the table, half empty, lip stains faintly visible.
The flat is quiet again. Too quiet.
A decade ago, there were no goodbyes. We came home to each other.
We lived on the same floor in college and moved in together when we moved to the city which cemented our best-friendship.
These days, seeing her requires checking calendars and making reservations. We then run through life updates with the enthusiasm of a news report. How did we go from weekly existential conversations in the kitchen after a night out to this? This was the person I turned to when my mother was diagnosed with lymphoma. I cried, she commiserated, we drank boxed Cab Sauv, I felt less alone. These days, I see my dentist more than I see her.
I know the excruciating details of her life but how well do we still really know each other? I’m not even sure I know what she does for a living (something in finance).
We still use the term best friend but I wonder if that’s true.
Still. Every time the door closes behind her, there’s a part of me that breaks.