On Friendship

I remember that wooden bench and the strawberry ice cream; I remember the Nintendo DS you borrowed me in that ultra-boring biology class; I remember those times when we talked until 2 AM about your relationship; I remember that incident where you tried to hack my computer to snoop into my private messages; I remember that blue lunch box you carried for me because my hands were full; I remember that tense argument over some stupid homework, which in the end, didn’t matter; I remember how you smiled after you crushed me at chess thirteen times in a row; I remember that phone call where you showed signs of betrayal, which made me question the friendship; I remember that time when we walked around the grocery store and talked about coconut water for ten minute straight.

As I write these words, memories of friendship flash in my mind. I can see faces; I can hear sounds. Having belly laugh, getting backstabbed; late-night texts, cans of beer. It all feels like yesterday.

But after all these years, one fact is clear: friendship, no matter how sweet, fades. Maybe it was caused by boredom, or new friends, or minuscule conflict, or the lack of physical proximity, or divergence of common interest—I have no idea. Interesting friendship eventually turned bland and boring—like a bowl of unsalted chicken soup. And when the friendship reached that state, we tacitly parted ways. Perhaps it was meant to decay all along.