I Lost A Friend

Silence doesn’t always mean indifference

Jan 14, 2026

I had a friend I stopped talking to for a while. Before that pause, we were inseparable—so close people assumed we were related. Same school, same club, shared beliefs, overlapping dreams. The kind of friendship that felt permanent. The textbook ride-or-die… until life gently disagreed.

We left the school where our friendship was born, moved to different places, and relied on social media to keep us tethered. At first, it worked. Messages stretched late into the night, jokes flew effortlessly, and we made random voice calls just to exist in each other’s presence for a few minutes.

Then things began to thin out.

Calls became occasional. Replies grew shorter and monotone. Conversations lost their warmth and started sounding like obligations. One day, I realized there was nothing new to share anymore—no gist waiting to spill. Reaching out felt scripted. Eventually, her name settled quietly among forgotten chats on my WhatsApp, untouched but never deleted.

And then… silence.

No explanation. No argument. Just absence.

I noticed the quiet in small ways. I’d open WhatsApp, scroll past her name, pause, then close the app again. I reread old messages more than I’d like to admit, trying to pinpoint where things shifted. At night, I’d rehearse texts in my head, casual enough not to seem desperate, friendly enough to feel familiar—only to delete them before sending.

I told myself stories to make the silence make sense. She’d found better friends. I was no longer important. I had become a chapter she’d finished reading. The kind you remember fondly, but never revisit.

It hurt more than I expected.

I had imagined us as the kind of friends who’d tell our children about each other someday, laughing through half-forgotten details during sleepovers and reunions. So I reached out once. Then again. When nothing changed, I stopped. Stupid pride stepped in, loud and convincing. If she cared, she’d remember.

So, I watched her statuses instead. Quietly. Religiously. My thumb hovered over the reply bar more times than I can count, but pride always won.

Looking back, that was foolish.

I didn’t know what she was dealing with. I didn’t know if she was struggling, overwhelmed, or simply trying to survive something she couldn’t explain. I assumed—and assumptions are reckless things. They almost cost me a friendship I wasn’t ready to lose.

I don’t even remember who reached out first (I still like to believe it was her), but that single message was enough. She had been dealing with personal issues (details I’ll keep private), and silence had been her way of coping.

Slowly, things found their rhythm again. Conversations loosened. The gist flowed like free wine at a feast. Laughter returned, unforced and familiar. Just like that, we were friends again—not exactly the same, but real. Maybe even stronger.

Now, I check up on people even when the effort isn’t returned immediately. There is a limit. I’ve learned that, too—but I’ve also learned this: silence doesn’t always mean indifference. Sometimes, it just means someone is carrying more than they know how to share.