“We’ll fast forward to a few years later; And no one knows except the both of us; And I have honored your request for silence; And you’ve washed your hands clean of this”

I sit in an air-conditioned car, parked on a residential street on a peaceful Sunday night. The neighborhood, quiet. Alone, I open Facebook. A post appears.

I stare at it. My heart sinks like an anchor dragging it down to the pit of my stomach. I scan through the pictures. Beautiful and suffocating in the same breath.

I'm not surprised, per se. Just. Heartbroken.

I can trace our friendship back to the day we met. Seventh-grade homeroom. A science lab. She sat across from me - a "P" on one side of the table. An "O" on the other. She kept her head buried in an “Adventures in Babysitting” novel. I stared into the abyss vaguely scanning the unfamiliar classmates in my new hometown.

The bell rang, students dispersed, and day-after-day we returned to that science lab. One day, we were no longer strangers.

Over the next six years, our friendship grew. We welcomed in another student and became our own tribe. My dad often said, “Where there was one, the other two weren’t far behind.”

Through high school, that was true. Essentially etched in stone. By college, we moved in ebbs and flows; but always supportive. Post-college, we branched out to mesh with different circles. I moved to Texas. They were roommates in Eastern Massachusetts. But Sunday mornings were reserved for a catch-up phone call.

September 11, 2001, struck. Our trio was irrevocably shattered and she, abruptly, pulled away, cutting loose from any remaining threads. My favorite party of three became a devastated singleton. Me.

Our paths crossed sporadically through the years and I repeatedly wondered why. She witnessed several rites of passage, always appearing pained. Then, she vanished as quickly as she reappeared. No deep conversation, and only a few clues that we were ever friends.

Eighteen years.

Until, one random day. I planned to be in her neck of the woods. I texted her asking for dinner recommendations. Surprisingly, she replied. I invited her out. She came. She was the friend I remembered from all those years ago. She smiled. Laughed. She spoke her name and reminisced like the clichéd no time had passed.

Dates were scheduled. Plans made. Conversations easily resumed. Within a year or two, we were as close as we had been in high school. But no more mature. I couldn’t quite name it. We didn’t discuss the past. She gave me tidbit insights as to how she struggled, but never quite let me in. She kept her pain locked in a figurative vault and the code constantly changed. I never knew where I stood.

There were only good times. Never vulnerability. Much like the empty promises made in high school – when she assured me she’d go to the lady parts doctor with me for my inaugural visit. Instead, she went to Broadway with her family. Our other friend accompanied me.

Now, in our forties, I offered to help her move from her townhouse and into her new home. I volunteered to fix, paint, organize and decorate with her, despite a three-hour car ride to her digs. My offers fell on uninterested ears.

Still, we got together. We binge-watched Taylor Sheridan TV shows. She made exceptional dishes. I brought dessert and alcohol. We ventured to the beach. We walked around downtown sometimes stopping in bars or restaurants. And for three years, we attended an elaborate 1920s-themed party. It became “our” thing.

And then it wasn’t.

I just didn’t get the memo. I saw the photographic evidence on social media that she attended this year's shindig with other people.

I sent her a text acknowledging her presence and beauty. I received no response.

I should have seen it coming.

The warning signs were there.

Just like twenty-five years ago, the conversations stopped. This time over text. From reciprocated messages sent at an even cadence to a missed step. One unanswered text in October, but a short conversation in November. A missed Thanksgiving greeting. Radio silence until my birthday. On her birthday, I sent similar well wishes. When I attempted conversation, she went mute. No words until my Sunday message. And, no response.

Early on, I had called and asked what troubled her or if there were issues between us. She assured me none existed. She was just "busy."

Yet, this time is different. I’m not asking her mother what happened nor will I continue to probe. She has won. I will let go.

I can’t go back. Not again. Not to rekindle and be dropped like a gum wrapper on the street. Not to be reminded her presence is fleeting and her friendship is conditional.