How to Grieve a Friend Who Is Still Alive

I texted you today. I wanted to revive this old inside joke we used to share, but you didn’t reply. The darkness of a phone that does not light up with your picture is somehow unfair. All of it’s unfair.

The Silence of an Unanswered Message

I live 3,000 miles away from you, but if I could look in your front window, I would see us: Buffy the Vampire marathon, salt and vinegar chips, and the deepest secrets we told no one else. You know, the men who stole from us, who made me whisper in an empty room where we only had each other, “I’m pretty sure something bad happened to me.” Buffy turned to look from inside the screen, going silent to hear the words that came next. You were just 10, but you handled it so well.

Close-up of a blue eye with detailed iris patterns, long eyelashes, and light skin visible around the eye.

When Friendship Was Home

I remember annoying you with the way I always left the dishes out in our apartment in college. I had made a huge list of all the things we might need to cook in our apartment—typical Virgo—and you said, “Do we really need all of this?” We didn’t. All we needed was each other. But my messiness always bothered you. I’m loud, sloppy, I break things, my mind always gathers around shiny objects, and sometimes forgets the rest of the world even exists. I can’t help that. It’s who I am.

Growing Up Inside the Same Story

You moved on, found better friends, and I didn’t. I sat in my own misery, lying to myself about some hidden truth I didn’t want to admit. Swiping as fast as possible past those Instagram posts that say something like, “When you level up, you lose friendships that don’t support the most splendid version of yourself.” I can’t read those. I don’t “level up.” Swipe, Simone, swipe, and yet the memories flood my mind anyway. Memorizing every Pokémon card. The exact digits of your phone number that I’d dial each day when I got home from school. The first time I got my period.

It wasn’t what I’d expected it to be. I thought it would be this momentous occasion, yet it was just me at your house, surrounded by my aunties shouting heartfelt guidance past the bathroom door about how to insert a tampon. It was too painful, so I ended up with a pad stuck to my underwear. It felt odd. There was no ceremony, no quinceañera, just another marathon of Buffy the Vampire Slayer—or maybe this time, Gilmore Girls.

I’m no longer 13. Add two decades to that, and if we counted the timespan of our friendship, it’d start from the time I was born, give or take a few days, and span to just about 2021? Five must be the number of endings.

I’m in the darkly lit living room of my new house with my new baby—who you haven’t met. He’s wonderful. He was born amidst a celebration, as only a Gemini can do. He is strong. His laugh is contagious. And I spent nine months building him in my body; he has my husband’s nose and mouth, but the eyes you’d recognize. They’re the same ones who used to watch everything you did with total fascination, stomping up and down the stairs, running the neighborhood, running my life. And I was your fan. I loved everything you did.

Motherhood Without You

Months passed and my emails went unanswered, my phone calls went straight to voicemail, and my phone sat sticking its tongue out at me from the corner. That’s when I realized I had lost a friend. 2024 was another year of silence, and in January 2025 I wrote in my journal: “I want to manifest a best friend.” To replace the one I had lost. The universe has a funny way of giving you what you want.

Two people are sitting close together, with one resting their head on the others shoulder. Both are seen from behind, and the setting appears to be a modern, indoor space with curved walls.

Because it’s December now, and I’m writing my wishes for the coming year, looking through the ones I asked for last year, I realized that I hadn’t gotten a best friend this year. There had been some contenders, but nothing really materialized. I sat in my bed, crying through the pain, thinking about the feeling of those blanket tents we used to build around the TV to watch one super badass slayer slash her way through every vampire in Sunnydale.

Becoming the Best Friend I Was Waiting For

And a voice in my head said, “It’s okay, Simone. I deeply and completely love and accept you.” And I realized that through all this pain, the universe had answered my call. I had manifested a best friend—she will never leave me—as only death can part us—and even then, I think I will always be with her.