My best friend

People ask if I’m okay.

I usually say yes. Or fine. Or something that keeps the conversation moving forward. Recently I have said, “2026 is already better than 2025.”

Is it?

The truth is: no.

I miss my best friend.

The loss has layers. Symbols. Emotions. Deep wounds I hadn’t braced for.

It has a past and a present, but no future.

I am grieving the person I thought she was.

And I am grieving the person she has shown herself to be.

The first grief is familiar.

It’s longing. It’s memory. It’s love searching for a home.

The second grief is sharper.

It’s the realization that the person I trusted does not exist in the way I believed she did.

That the loyalty I felt was not mutual. That the safety I thought we shared was conditional.

I loved the version of her I thought I knew.

I do not like the person she is.

Holding both of those truths at the same time is breaking me in ways I don’t know how to explain politely.

I had been searching my whole life for this kind of friendship.

I thought I had finally found it.

But a friendship cannot be deep if only one person is doing the emotional work.

I kept waiting for her to be present. Capable. Willing to understand.

She never showed up.

I cannot carry the weight for two people.

I never should have had to.

Today, Vit Krejci was traded from the Atlanta Hawks to the Portland Trailblazers. So what?

She is the only person who knows what that news means to me.

First John, now Vit. Before him, Hunter, Dejounte, and Clint.

These are not just players.

They are timestamps. A shared language. A private shorthand.

I have no one to share the moment with.

She still reaches out.

But not with depth. Not with meaning.

Her messages skim the surface. They are polite. Contained. Careful.

It is the only way she knows how to stay connected.

I believe that.

But it is not enough for me.

I needed more even when we were close. I needed presence. Emotional competence.

The ability to stay with discomfort instead of circling around it. I needed to feel met.

Now that she is farther away, both emotionally and physically, the distance is undeniable.

What once felt thin now feels hollow. What I used to excuse now feels heavy.

The loss is sharper because the contrast is finally clear.

I am no longer waiting for her to become someone else.

I have had to become someone else instead.

Not because I wanted to, but because the truth reshaped me.

And that may be the hardest part.