All of a sudden, I couldn’t let go of them, but I also had no idea what I was holding onto.

Losing a friend can hurt as deeply as losing a lover, yet we rarely talk about it. We’re told to move on quickly, to “stay low maintenance,” as if emotional detachment is a badge of maturity. But maybe letting go gracefully also means learning to grieve the friendships that shaped us.

I once stared back, trying to catch a glimpse of the person who once knew everything about me, from the happiest to the ugliest. We went from being each other's emergency contacts back to strangers, reverting nicknames back to government names. From looking for each other in a room full of people to not wanting to catch a glimpse of the other's shadow. From someone I knew to someone I used to know. That’s when it hit me: we had become strangers with memories. At that moment, I realized there was nothing I could do to take us back.

Each night, I spent it on my Snap gallery, wondering what went wrong. I asked myself: could I have been better? Should I have done more than I already did? What else could I do? I would have done anything to keep you. I had mastered your laugh, your smiles and your personality so much that it felt like a part of me was chipped away as you left. It felt like a part of me died the moment we stopped talking.

At first, I couldn’t understand why losing a friend hurt this much. I look back now and think: what is even friendship? In today’s world, we tend to put romantic relationships above platonic ones; we would run back to a relationship that had dragged us through the mud a thousand times rather than reconnect with a friend over a small misunderstanding. The truth is, we have become so accustomed to the idea that people are disposable—that’s why we value “low-maintenance friendships,” the ones we can check in on every few months and move on. But would we accept that from a romantic partner? Then why expect it from a platonic friendship? Why are we so quick to call it quits when we could have communicated and apologized? Nothing good comes easy; even diamonds are tested with fire.

I knew you couldn’t be mine till the end, so I had to learn to let go, even when it hurt. I had to learn how to dance alone, to be there, to smile, and to live for myself. My mom called and asked, “Hey, what about that person?” For some reason, I lost the voice in my throat and didn’t know how to mutter the words, “They aren’t there anymore.” To me, “anymore” shouldn’t exist when you are still there. But I quietly said, “We don’t talk anymore, but they’re okay.” She asked, “Are you okay?” I replied, “I am alive, so I am good.” I knew I wasn’t, but those were the only words I could say to prevent my mom from spiraling.

She ended the call by saying, “You know, not everyone is meant to be there forever. Sometimes people come into your life for a ‘reason,’ a ‘season,’ and very rarely, a ‘lifetime.’” Usually, my mom’s advice can feel like she’s just saying it for the sake of it. But this time, it felt different. All I could hear in my head was: a reason, a season, a lifetime. Does it mean I wasn’t doing friendship right? Does it mean that maybe I didn’t truly understand what friendship was?

It wasn’t until I sat with those words that I began to understand. Think of life as a book with different chapters. In chapter one, you meet someone who helps you with a project or someone you meet because you need help or a favor—that’s a reason. In chapter two, you meet someone who’s your dorm mate or roommate, and for two semesters, you’re constantly in each other’s faces—or maybe it’s a workplace, and the people you meet there form that season. A lifetime is someone who has been there from chapter one until the present, who has shown up, seen you through different eras, and stuck through it all. The mistake isn’t in loving deeply; it’s expecting every character to stay for the entire book. That’s normal, but when you realize you’re the only one putting in the energy to see it flourish for a lifetime, unfortunately, that’s when you know it’s not meant to be. And we should know when to step back.

People who are in your life for a reason or a season are there for purpose and direction. It’s also a learning period for you. But that doesn’t mean you should overgive yourself. Instead, it means you should do your due diligence as a human being and be a good person, without expecting them to stay for life. It also means you should find peace in goodbyes, because these people are sometimes the best temporary people we meet. It takes two to nurture a friendship, and oftentimes, that energy isn’t always there—that’s why some fall short of becoming a lifetime.

The hardest lesson I learned from this is about value and overestimation. Sometimes we overestimate how much we mean to others, and because of that, we overgive. When you notice you are the only one doing the heavy lifting—reaching out first, solving problems first, taking accountability first—that’s the point to step back. In this day and age, people are self-aware and know what they are doing, and if they wanted to, they would. We should learn where we stand in someone’s life. If they don’t go hard for you, why move mountains for them? If you try talking and they don’t change, why stay? Sometimes the best thing you can do for yourself is walk away.

Now I am learning to be comfortable with goodbyes. I never knew when to stop, when to let go, when not to push myself, or when not to put my self-respect above a person. But now I am learning. I am learning that the right people stay, the right people pour into you, and the right people don’t keep you up at night wondering what went wrong or what you could have done better. Be comfortable having the best experiences with the people you meet. Be careful not to overextend yourself. Be a good human being. But most of all, know your worth.

The beauty in letting go is that it creates space for those who are truly meant to stay.