There was a time when friendship didn’t need a calendar. When summer didn’t feel like a season but a feeling—of laughter echoing down narrow colony lanes, of slippers discarded on warm tiled porches, and of doorbells that didn’t need ringing because we already knew the other would be waiting.
Growing up in India, friendships were simpler. You didn’t text before showing up. You didn’t “make plans.” You just appeared, like clockwork, after your homework was mostly done, and the sun had dipped just enough for outdoor play to be allowed again. You went straight to their house, waited at the gate, or shouted their name until someone—usually a mom in a nightie—shouted back, “She’s coming!” And that was it. You had your person for the evening. Sometimes two. Sometimes five. It didn’t matter. There was always someone.
We didn’t realize it then, but those gates—literal, rusted, sometimes creaky—were symbolic. They were the threshold between home and outside, between duty and freedom, between childhood and the world. And somehow, we always stood at each other’s gates, waiting. Expecting. Hoping.
And then one day, we stopped.
the unspoken shifts
It wasn’t a dramatic event, no explosive fight or harsh words exchanged. It was something more subtle, more insidious—an unspoken shift in priorities, interests, and lives. One friend moved away. Another got too busy with schoolwork. Another started spending more time with a new circle of friends. Slowly, those gates that once stood wide open started to feel more like a barrier than a welcome. The visits became less frequent, the calls fewer. And before I knew it, I was standing at my own gate, waiting for a knock that never came.
There was something magical about those earlier days—knowing someone would always be on the other side, ready to laugh with you, to listen, to be there. We didn’t need plans or reasons. Just a walk, a look, a gate, and suddenly we were together. But somehow, we stopped showing up. And it didn’t happen all at once—it just… happened.
the bittersweet realization
At first, it was easy to dismiss it. Life was changing, after all. I convinced myself that the drift was natural, that this was just part of growing up. But over time, it became harder to ignore the ache in my chest. I began to realize that the people who had once been so close were now just distant memories, frozen in moments of time I couldn’t seem to reach anymore.
I remember one evening when I stood at my gate, just like I used to, waiting for someone to show up. I stared at the empty road, hoping to hear the familiar voice calling my name, but there was nothing. The silence was suffocating. It hit me then—those bonds I had always taken for granted were no longer there. The unspoken understanding that we would always be there for each other was slowly fading, and the worst part was that neither of us had said goodbye.
The pain didn’t come immediately. It crept in slowly, settling into the quiet spaces of my day-to-day life. It was there in the stillness of my afternoons when I found myself aimlessly scrolling through old photos, laughing at memories of times when we were inseparable. It was there in the laughter of a random stranger’s voice, reminding me of how carefree we once were. It was there every time I passed by a street corner we used to sit at, or when I went to the local tea stall where we’d spent hours discussing everything from school gossip to our biggest dreams.
Those memories are still there, alive in the corners of my mind, but the sharp sting of their absence left me unsettled. How had we gone from laughing about the smallest things to suddenly having nothing to talk about? It wasn’t just that the visits stopped—it was that I realized I no longer recognized the people we had become.
Growing Apart Without Knowing It
What made this realization even harder was that it didn’t happen with a bang. It was a slow process—so gradual that we didn’t even notice until it was too late. The once spontaneous meetups were replaced by texts that went unanswered, and the late-night talks became sparse and awkward. We started to take different paths, chase different dreams, and live different lives.
It was almost as if we had become strangers to each other—except we weren’t.
We’re still in touch—on birthdays, on random reels, on the occasional “this reminded me of you” message. But the rhythm is different now. Time zones, deadlines, degrees—we’re scattered across countries and continents, chasing dreams that once grew side by side. It’s not that we stopped caring. It’s just that life grew louder, and the spaces between us grew wider.
We still share a past, still laugh at the same inside jokes when we do talk. But it feels like we’ve forgotten the language of our friendship. We are the same people—but also not. We’ve become versions of ourselves that we haven’t fully introduced to each other.
Sometimes you will never know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory
Dr Seuss
I can still remember the first time I noticed it. We were both sitting together, in what was supposed to be one of our regular catchups. But the conversation felt strained. We talked about work, about family, about things that we once would’ve brushed over for hours of talking about something ridiculous, like which Bollywood movie had the best item number or who was the cutest actor in our favorite TV show. We tried to fill the gaps with words, but they weren’t the right words anymore. It was as if we had lost the language of our friendship. It wasn’t anyone’s fault; we had simply grown up. But it didn’t make the change any easier.
The Pain of Letting Go
And yet, even as I recognized the inevitable distance, I couldn’t help but feel the sting of loss. Letting go isn’t always about a loud, dramatic goodbye. Sometimes, it’s about all the little things—the unanswered messages, the missed calls, the plans that never materialized. It’s about the realization that you no longer have the person who once knew you better than anyone else.
It hurt more than I expected. I think it was because, for so long, I had believed that some friendships were permanent. I thought that childhood friends, the ones who knew me before I had to wear masks or pretend to be something I wasn’t, would always be there. But now, in the quiet spaces between our worlds, I could feel the void. The silence was filled with the echoes of everything we once shared.
Letting go of that kind of friendship wasn’t easy. The pain was soft, like a constant ache, but it was still there—every time I passed by a place we used to visit or heard a song that reminded me of our time together. I couldn’t seem to move on from what felt like a chapter left unfinished.
I had to learn to accept that sometimes, people change. And sometimes, that change means they grow out of a version of themselves they shared with you. Letting go doesn’t mean you stop caring. It doesn’t mean you forget what you had. It simply means you begin to make room for the new things in life—things that don’t erase the past, but help you grow with it.
Moving On, But Not Forgetting
But eventually, life moves on, even if your heart isn’t ready. We all moved in different directions, chasing new goals, meeting new people, and embracing new experiences. The past, though cherished, became just that—past.
The ache didn’t go away, but I began to understand that moving on didn’t mean forgetting. I didn’t have to erase the memories of those carefree days spent together. Instead, I learned to carry them with me—like a small, quiet treasure tucked away in the corners of my heart. I would never forget those friends. They were a part of me. They shaped me into who I am today.
Some people arrive and make such a beautiful impact on your life, you can barely remember what life was like without them
Anna Taylor
We’ve all changed. We’ve all become different versions of ourselves, and maybe we’ll never find our way back to the way we once were. But that doesn’t mean the love isn’t there. Even though our paths have diverged, the bond we shared remains in the background, like a quiet song playing just out of earshot, always present but not always heard.
It’s strange. I can’t help but wish I could walk up to one of those gates again and hear someone shout, “She’s coming!” just like old times. But we’re not there anymore. And while the gate may not open the same way it once did, there is still that quiet hope that maybe, just maybe, one day we’ll all be able to come back together in the simplest way we once did.
The Beauty in the Goodbye
And yet, in all of this, there is a strange kind of beauty. The goodbye wasn’t messy, wasn’t filled with anger or resentment. It was just life—changing, evolving, moving forward. And in that quiet shift, I learned something valuable: friendships don’t always have to last forever to matter forever.
Sometimes, the best memories are those that exist in their purest form—uncomplicated by expectations or time. I will always treasure those memories—the laughter, the shared secrets, the warmth of standing at each other’s gates, waiting. Even if we never meet at those gates again, I will carry those moments with me, tucked away like a cherished book on the shelf of my heart.
We may have stopped waiting at each other’s gates, but the love, the memories, and the lessons we learned together—they are still there. And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough. The beauty lies in knowing that some friendships, even if they fade, will always have a place in your heart, forever.
Maybe we’ll never wait at each other’s gates again, barefoot and breathless, chasing sunsets and secrets. Maybe life really did pull us in different directions, scattering us across cities, careers, and commitments. But if you ever find yourself thinking of me—of us—know that somewhere in my heart, a version of us still laughs under trees, still races home before our moms start shouting, still believes that some friendships never really end. They just quietly settle into the soul, like an old lullaby you didn’t know you remembered, but still somehow hum when the world feels too quiet. And maybe that’s the most beautiful kind of forever.
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