to all the friends i have loved

with you till the end of the line

Sitting on hardened bags filled with books in a dimly lit room, with a tin of cocoa in hand. It is passed between us like a blunt, discreetly but still in view to anyone who looks close enough; the roof of my mouth is sticky, the bitter then sweet taste flowing perfectly with silence, occasionally filled with commentary on something, the stressful exam week ahead not casting any shadows. It is metal basins in hand, the rain pouring, taps dry, and devising ways to get the dishes done. Nights squeezed into a tiny bed, the risk of getting into trouble just because I am sick. It is watching sunsets and walking at night in anticipation of something we did not have a language for.

Friendship is the sum of many parts—years of two people constantly shedding and wearing new skin and finding ways to fit into these realities. I am a former “female friendships do not work” person. This stemmed from a mixture of an upbringing that believed friendship was a colossal waste of time that would likely lead to death or maiming, and years of not fitting in with girls my age. I was odd, often in social interactions that were games whose rules I did not understand. This resulted in bullying and envy for dancing to the beat of my drum. I was popular for all the wrong reasons, and I learnt to be content with the pleasure of my company early on.

It was not surprising, to say the least, that when I was finally welcomed into the inner sanctum of friendship, I went about it all wrong. I made all the wrong friends. Not bad people; they just were not right for me. The price of these failed friendships was high, reinforcing the notions of my upbringing that friendship was bad and that I had no business participating in it.

I was also no angel and, in trying to fit in, made horrible choices. There was no blueprint to follow—well, maybe Mean Girls.

There was a lot of cattiness, backbiting, and drama, and in hindsight, most of it felt like the confining walls of growing up. Uncomfortable and tight, full of second-guessing. A distaste was developed for the whole affair.

Friendships can feel very transactional. A weighing scale of aestheticism, pop psychology, and careful curation. What determines actual friendship has been lost in a sea of looking good together and always feeling good, rather than being friends. The internet has become a judge, jury, and executioner when it comes to determining what good relationships look like.

I am still not like other girls. Not because I am better, but because we are all different and have different experiences that shape who we are. I have been a poor friend. Repeatedly. I have failed to be what someone needed. I have also been good at it, and the most important lesson has been to always trust my gut.

I am soon going to celebrate a decade of friendship. The longest I have ever known anyone who is not a family member. Ten years of proximity, long distances, a million laughs, snotty weeping in between, and it has not always been perfect. Yet, every year we decide to give each other another chance. 

Some disagreements felt like the beginning of goodbye, conversations that were hard to stomach, and life-altering moments that were destabilising, and each moment felt like it was the end. 

It is not easy being human with other people. To shed off programming and embrace the unknown, but you find people who make it a little easier to be, and you think it is not so bad to exist.

I have cried over the end of friendships and am still haunted. The best of my friendships might be a thing of the past tomorrow, and yet it is also so necessary. To have known love like this before. 

Getting ready together while a banger playlist plays, feeling irritated by my chewing, my anxiety about being late when we go out, sharing meals cooked with so much love you can practically taste it in every bite. It's about living through mistakes and deciding to stick it out and get it right, not because it's easy, but because it's not. It’s painful, frustrating, and sometimes even makes you angry, but you do it, and you keep doing it.

It is not magic; no number of likes on a photo can ever compensate for the effort it requires, nor the joy it fosters. There may be a slow fade or a quick bang, but when we are fortunate, we meet those people we are willing to jump into graves for. And perhaps it is magic because magic cannot exist without mutual exchange; it arises from a desire to give while also receiving. The most powerful magic is that of people who are in harmony, moving in synergy, through thick and thin. Magic is also a craft that demands constant effort and a desire to improve.

I have read about friendships that are life-altering, I have watched films about them, and I have lived through them. There is no perfect elixir that gives you the perfect person or the perfect situation. You wake up, and you get to choose what kind of friend you are going to be.

Ultimately, it all feels terrifying. The stakes are high. With every story shared, every laugh that echoes between us, and every tear shed, the potential loss becomes heavier, yet that is the price of admission. I pay it with every hug and every secret smile shared. I pay it every time the voices are loud, and I forget what the point is, and I pay it with the possibility of implosion.

A friend. A friend. A friend. Like cocoa. A little sour sometimes, sharp to the tongue, and yet spoonful after spoonful, the sweetness is like nothing you have tasted, and you find yourself wanting to devour it in one sitting.

How lucky are we to be friends?