"Now that you're doin' alright, You're pretty much outta sight"

The text came through. “I need space from you, Brandy.” Argument aside, the words struck me like a slap to the face. Rubbing my palm against my skin as though the strike was real, air abruptly escaped my lungs.

In the days following, I replayed the difference of opinion until I couldn’t dream up another what-if scenario. Then, I retraced my steps to over-analyze the bigger picture.

We met more than twenty-five years ago, as what seems like babies, trying to find our footing in an unfamiliar environment. Out in the real world, we remained in sync. As the years passed, we celebrated each other’s victories and mourned the losses. We grew apart and close again. A couple of years after I returned to my beloved New England, our friendship rekindled like when we first met. We began a life-changing project together. Ever so passionate about it, we were determined to change minds and build an empire. I frequently commuted to his place, 200 miles round trip, to meet and discuss ideas, plans, or support him when he talked about this project to others. Several times, I traveled to other parts of Massachusetts to be his sidekick. On other occasions, I visited just to lounge around. Not once do I regret a single trip.

Enjoying our newly re-established connection, I frequently invited him to visit me, hang out, and come to a shindig. With each invitation, he declined. One day, he bluntly, in between bursts of a laughter, told me he’d never visit. He didn’t want to come to me. He didn’t want to see where I live. He didn’t want to travel there.

The invitations stopped, but I continued to visit him. Often. Frequently. Once in a while. We still laughed and talked about his concerns and issues. Sometimes, we talked about mine. I thought this was just who he was, after all, some people don’t travel.

One day, he told me his decision to visit me changed and he penciled in two back-to-back dates. Our communication increased, like two giddy teenagers excited about a frivolous something.

Just days before the first planned adventure, scheduled six weeks in advance, he told me his world crashed around him and he couldn’t make it. I said I understood and continued to text him like normal. He stopped messaging me. Frustrated at his radio silence, I texted an ill-timed, snarky, and a bit too-close-to-home comment. Did it matter? He didn’t respond. To anything. Very unlike anything I knew of him.

Worried, I called. When he answered, I said, “Oh good. You’re alive. Phew. Now you can go back to ignoring me.” Instead of hanging up, he told me my snarky comment bothered him. In fact, my disagreeing with his recent decision troubled him. Comments I made a month ago upset him. He needed my support on this decision. I disagreed. I acknowledged the freedom of choice and accepted he was going to do as he pleased, but I don’t support it. It’s dangerous and reckless. As a friend looking in from the outside, my role is to offer guidance or warnings when I know something he doesn’t. I want to ensure he walks away safe, unharmed, and hopefully unscathed. If not, to at least make sure he understands all the information presented to him. I will not encourage and cheer him as he stomps and jumps up and down on already shaky ground, waiting for the earth to collapse into a sink hole.

When we hung up nearly an hour later, we were both laughing. He said he looked forward to visiting me at the end of the week.

I thought we were good. The day before the second planned visit, he surprised me with a text that said I need to support him regardless of his choices and since I’m not supporting one in particular, he needs space. From me.

I replay those conversations in my mind, now over-analyzing the particulars. The words not spoken. He had frequently tried to downplay the importance of the new decision. Make it insignificant. Underplay it. Yet, he traveled for it. At least twice in a couple of months. I replayed the words that supported this choice: the duplicity, repetition, and gullibility.

The words not spoken echo like insults yelled from a canyon. It has been four months since his declaration of needing space and his message is distinct. He wasn’t requesting a break, but a break-up. He is a traveler, just not to me. He never intended to visit because I don’t have value to him.

In hindsight, I don’t think he saw me as a friend, but as a tool. He harnessed my abilities for the project. When he got what he needed, he put me aside informing me he no longer needed me. He unceremoniously broke that bond without further explanation, just like when you put down a hammer after hanging a picture or a pen after the ink runs dry. After all, how often does someone visit a manufacturer’s warehouse to praise a hammer or pen, or travel to the headquarters to reminisce the good times with the salesperson? As to why he humored me for so long, maybe it’s because breaking up is hard to do.