The New Year has already passed and, surprise, WhatsApp exploded with messages from family and friends I hadn’t spoken to in a long time. That’s when I realized three things. Some people are still there. Others don’t even leave you on read anymore. And then there are those who closed the door with a double lock. Oh well. Living far away is like Netflix. Everyone keeps watching their own series and, at best, you find out about their lives through spoilers. I blame time. It does whatever it wants and never asks for permission.
As a child, I thought friends were forever, like cholesterol. Then I grew up, moved more times than I changed clothes, and learned the obvious. Friends aren’t eternal, but they do show up when you need them most. Like when I was nine, moved cities yet again, and promised I wouldn’t lose touch. Spoiler. I failed. We don’t always change first. Sometimes the context pushes you and resets the game we call life.
When I was ten, Omar was the brother I chose just because. We were so different that it worked. He taught me to stay light, to dare everything, even playing Nintendo at five in the morning before his mother announced the domestic apocalypse. That’s when I learned that the world belongs to those who dare. That idea still follows me around in Germany.
Then came El Pollo, during university. I was more rigid than a German train schedule, and he brought competition and hunger for improvement. While others were thinking about parties and girls, we survived final projects and laughed along the way. We coded so much that we were offered to pass the final exam without even attending. We accepted and went to play pool. Responsibility, yes. But with style.
In Germany, Alfonso appeared right when it was time to redefine goals and pretend I spoke German. He helped me get a job at a quarry. I ended up exhausted, of course, but he saved me from a very discouraging season. I hope he’s doing well. I still owe him a few beers.
Aitor was the brother life sent me late. I pushed him into the world of salsa, and he passed on to me the desire to learn French, after that double date with two French women that was funny, even if it didn’t end the way we expected. Later, when I told him I had to leave Germany, he cried. That’s when I knew you were a good friend. I didn’t cry with you. I did it alone. I hope it made you happy to know that I came back. One day we’ll walk the Camino de Santiago, if the universe doesn’t get in the way.
I have many more friends, but if I name them all this turns into a novel and loses its charm. They know who they are. So do I.
Almost no one left because of drama. I avoid drama like Mondays without coffee. Most people left because of change. Emotional distance weighs more than geographical distance. Sometimes there are no awkward silences. Just silence. And yes, I have to admit it, I’m not easy either. I stopped writing to half the world. Not out of lack of affection, but because of too many things to do. Many times I thought “I’ll reply later” and didn’t. Not because they didn’t matter, but because I also need space to talk to myself and not get lost in routine.
Still, when we talk again, the joy is real. In my view, that defines a solid friendship. I’m grateful even to those who are no longer here, to those who closed the door quietly. Good memories don’t disappear with silence. Sharing fears, ideas, and longings was enough to not feel alone and to keep going, far from home and family.
Today I’m less impulsive and a bit more aware. If I could go back, I’d hug myself and give myself a gentle slap, just for not understanding myself yet. Letting go is also a way of caring. I learned that after many moves and defeats, when being a migrant stops hurting and becomes routine.
I don’t want to be the friend who’s always there. I want to be the one who’s there when it matters. With humor, without drama, because life is already serious enough on its own.
And you, have you already reached out to all your friends?
