To My Best Friend — I Still Miss Us

For the friendship that still lives in memory.

Hey man,

Remember that one road trip with no plan at all? We got lost, laughed too hard, and somehow that was the best part. I wish we could go back to that kind of simple. Miss you, always.

Dear Abhi,

Twenty-three years. That's longer than most marriages. Longer than some people know their own families. And somehow... we let one phone call become the end of it all.

We grew up together. School benches. College canteens. First interviews. First salaries. You weren't just my best friend. You were every chapter of my life that mattered.

Life took us to different cities. Then different responsibilities. You found love your way. I found mine differently. You stood by me when my first marriage fell apart. You celebrated when I found happiness again. When our children were born almost together... it felt like life was giving our friendship another generation.

Distance never defeated us. We still called. Still laughed at jokes no one else understood. Still planned impossible business ideas. Still packed our bags for random trips. Some friendships don't need daily conversations. They simply pick up where they left off. Ours always did.

Then you started working with Dad. I had never wanted that. I used to tell you— "Yaar, friendship aur family ko kaam ke beech mat laate hain." You'd laugh it off. Until one day... you resigned. Abruptly.

There were things you were handling. Commitments Dad believed you'd see through. And suddenly, you weren't there. I remember watching him make calls that evening... trying to figure out what had been left unfinished.

He didn't say much. He didn't have to. I could see how hurt he was. And somewhere between being his friend... and being his son, the son took over.

I called you that night. Not to ask what had happened. Not to ask why you'd left. Not even to hear your side. I called with a version of the story already complete in my head. You tried explaining. "Karan, meri baat toh sun..." I didn't.

I reminded you that I'd never wanted you working with Dad. I told you what I thought you'd done wrong. I raised my voice. You raised yours. And somewhere in that call... twenty-three years stopped mattering.

The strangest part? I still don't know if hearing your side would've changed my mind. I just wish I'd respected our friendship enough to hear it.

I don't even remember everything we said that day. Funny, isn't it? Twenty-three years of memories... and our friendship ended over words I can barely remember. But I remember one thing. I never really heard your side. I'd already decided what had happened. I gave my anger more space than I gave you.

Maybe if we spoke today, I'd still disagree with you. Maybe you'd still disagree with me. Maybe neither of us was completely right. I've stopped trying to solve that part. Because that's not what I regret anymore. I regret that after twenty-three years... you deserved to be heard by me. And I didn't listen.

After that... I thought we'd cool down. I thought you'd call. Maybe you thought I would. I tried reaching you through people who knew us both. Nothing really changed. Days became months. Months became years. And somewhere along the way... our silence became easier to maintain than our friendship was to repair.

I don't know if we'll ever be friends again, Abhi. Maybe some wounds need more time. Maybe some never heal the way we hope they will. But when an old photograph appears... when I remember one of our ridiculous trips... or when something happens and I know exactly what you would've said... I still miss us.

Not because I have forgotten what happened. Not because I've decided who was right. But because life is too short to pretend twenty-three years meant nothing. And if life ever gives us one more conversation... this time, I'll listen.

A note from Arjun

Some friendships become so old...

we stop imagining they can ever end.

You grow up together.

School turns into college.

College turns into jobs.

Jobs take you to different cities.

Then come marriages, heartbreaks, children, responsibilities...

and somehow that one friend remains.

Not always present.

Not always calling.

But always there.

Until one day...
something happens.

An argument.
A raised voice.
A moment when anger speaks faster than love.
And then comes silence.

The dangerous kind.

The kind where both people think,
“He’ll call.”
“He knows me.”
“Twenty-three years can’t end like this.”

But sometimes they do.

Not because the friendship meant less.

Not because either person stopped caring.

Sometimes two people simply become so busy defending their own hurt...
that neither notices the relationship quietly slipping away.

And perhaps that is what makes losing an old friend different.

You don’t only lose the person.

You lose someone who remembers versions of you that nobody else ever knew.

A letter about friendship, anger, regret...
and the conversation that should have happened before silence became permanent.