​Nothing but the best

I used to have a cousin, who was my best friend. Well, I still have that cousin, we‘re just not best friends anymore. We’re not friends at all anymore, if I‘m being perfectly honest. We are simply cousins, each with her own life and every once in a while our lives will intersect at a certain place and time, we will talk and laugh and reminisce. We will sit together and feel together and be proud together, of each other, of the struggles we‘ve over- and the women we‘ve become. And then we will go home an keep living our separate lives and continue not being friends. I will go home and be glad because I know her, because I know in my heart who she is, no matter where life takes her. And I will go home and be sad, because I know her and she left me behind.

I don‘t mean this as an accusation or that I feel owed by her in any type of way. I mean it in the literal sense that one day she woke up and chose not to include me in her life anymore. Well, I don‘t know that. Maybe she just woke up one day and didn‘t think to include me in her life anymore. There was no big fight, no falling out, no breakup from which we both needed time to recover. It was a quiet drawing of lines in the sand, one day we were talking on the phone and then we were not. One day I was sending her a selfie and she told me she was proud of me and three weeks later my texts didn‘t go through and I had no idea why. At that time, I was having a rough go of it. I never expected her to be there for me always. But I also never thought that there would be a time she wouldn‘t be. Turns out, she had only deactivated her Whats app. It‘s not like she didn’t want to talk to me specifically (I think), she had only wanted to be mindful of how accessible she was. I could still reach her by calling or by text message. But it was never the same. We used to have a hugs-and-kisses, talk-hours-on-the-phone kind of relationship and all of a sudden we had shifted to „warm regards“ and nothing but yearly birthday congratulations.

I found out later, I think it was my mother who told me, that she had quit her job and enrolled to study marine biology. It felt like hearing news about a long past ex boyfriend, who turned his life around and is doing something great now. „Good for him, I wish him all the best.“ We had talked, before, how her job was draining her creativity, how she resented the people she had to work with, how she was scared of making a mistake if she were to quit. I knew, or at least I hoped, that this wouldn‘t be it for her, witnessing her light dim in a corporate world, with which she shared few values. She had always had an affinity for the ocean, for the habitats it provided, for the freedom of riding its waves. I felt so proud of her, that she had allowed herself to be courageous and follow her gut. And I felt terribly sad for myself, that this bold step had absolutely nothing to do with me. Again, let me clarify. It‘s not that I presume I had led her to make that choice or that I could claim accolades for nudging her when she had felt stuck. Rather it was the loss of kinship in that moment, that broke my heart. The cousin who I grew up with, the close friend with whom I‘d shared childhood and youth and so many core memories, had decided to sever the almost sister-like bond that held us close while we navigated the sensibilities of turning from teenage girls to women. After nearly thirty years, she did not wish me to be a part of her journey anymore.

I think it was almost two years until we saw each other for the first time, after. It was a family gathering and it was just assumed, that others would have kept me up to date. We never once spoke about how or why our relationship had changed. I can count on one hand the times we‘ve really talked since then, usually when I come to town for a family visit. One year we went swimming in the lake, just like the good old times. The next year we went to see a movie, I remember we talked a lot about our family and I felt, for the first time in a while, that there was some hurt on both sides, but again it was assumed that we not talk about it. The year after, we walked and talked about life in general and I felt like this could be a new beginning for us, not necessarily as friends, but as adult cousins with similar interests and values in life. I think it was after that – or maybe before? I forget – that we had a rare phone call and exchanged mainly recipe ideas for healthy eating. It felt so odd, having a conversation full of “Me too”s and “I know exactly how you feel”s, and still after hanging up nothing remained but distance. And yet, we were talking. I‘ve invited her to come visit me, which she agreed to, but we couldn‘t figure out the right timing. So. A few months later, I visited my hometown again and we hung out a second time in the same year, and coincidentally, I could have made the choice to move into the apartment above hers. I had a movie montage playing in my head, we‘d be so close that we could see each other all the time, we’d share dinner, we‘d do creative projects together like we always talked about, even in our thirties we‘d help each other grow and flourish. It was a beautiful fantasy. In the end I didn‘t want to relocate and the last text I sent her was to decline. Somehow it felt very final. I know it‘s a completely ridiculous notion, but somehow it felt like I could be choosing her (what does that even mean), but I decided not to. We haven‘t talked since.

That summer did bring a whisper of hope though, and ever since I keep thinking that I should be making more of an effort. That the ball is in my court. That I should have sent her birthday wishes, even though my depressive episode at the time told me that there was no point anyway. That I should have wished her a merry Christmas and a happy new year, even though it would have felt like sliding back into a pattern of acquaintanceship rather than familiarity and I just couldn‘t bear it. That I should reach out and see if she can fit me in, when I come to town the next time, which will be in a few weeks. Maybe I should do that. Maybe I will. If I can bear it.

In the meantime, I catch very rare glimpses of her life on social media and I cheer her on from the sidelines, like a fan. And rather like a creep, I wonder if she ever thinks about me too. Maybe she thinks of me when she is writing and remembers, that this is something I love also. Maybe she thinks of me when she is painting and remembers the time we spent at a painting class together. Maybe she thinks of me when she greets her new upstairs neighbor in the hall and daydreams of what could have been. Maybe she doesn‘t. That‘s okay too. Because even if we‘re not friends, I wish her nothing but the best. And I mean that.