Letter to a friend

Today, my friend told me she was reminiscing about our past.

Our first dinner was at a Japanese restaurant—lovely, atmospheric. Oh, how young we were. So full of dreams, before the weight of reality bent them into something else. Now we’re in different countries, and neither of us is following the path our degrees once promised. Those dreams became our lighthouse—bright, steady—until the storm came and swept our boats into new waters with no guiding light. Only the sun and the moon remained as reminders that we were still adrift on this adventure called life.

People say you can’t look directly at the sun—it burns your eyes. But the moon, the moon is different. A quiet companion to sailors and wanderers. It warns us of storms, lights our path when the world turns dark. It listens to our confessions, hears our silent cries, protects our forgotten dreams.

Have you ever felt moonlight on your skin? It doesn’t burn. It chills. It makes you shiver and seek the comfort of someone’s arms. It makes you lonely, but not in a heart-aching way—just a soft, quiet acceptance of what’s to come. Like resting your head on someone’s lap and crying over something that’ll seem silly in the morning.

How many moons have we seen over the years? New and old. Too many and not enough. We’re still searching for our lighthouse, darling. We were so young back then, and we are still young—for our future selves. What would I give to meet her? Just to be reassured I’m going to be okay. To feel her arms around me. To see her tears over what I’m enduring now. But to see her alive and well.

What happened to the younger versions of us?

Was it uncertainty? The burn of love? Or the quiet unfairness of circumstance that dimmed our inner light? Did we choose this, willingly?

I miss us. The things we didn’t know. The things we hadn’t done yet. I wouldn’t change a thing.

My heart aches for the laughs we shared. For the flower bells on rainy mornings. Hot coffee. Silly gossip. We were never lonely—our city was our friend. Now, it feels like a jailor. Guilt crawls into my bones. This dream feels like a never-ending nightmare. And yet I still sit inside these friend-walls.

They say happiness is a choice. That fear and pain don’t have to defeat you. That you can light a fire again. But what if you have no strength? What if the attempt at hope only deepens the darkness? What if there’s no willingness left to turn anything on?

You’re sailing away. There is no more lighthouse. No more sun.

Just the moon.

Loneliness may feel tragic, but you are still you. A different you. One who knows how to laugh. How to cry when it’s too painful. One who still knows how to love.

When the world turns its back on you, kicks you when you’re already down—how do you choose love? How do you love people who don’t understand you? Who love you but leave? Who try to help from a distance but can’t offer you softness?

Tell me, future me. How did you do it?

My hair is longer now. I’m losing my teenage features. My body isn’t as thin as it was. I’ve grown a little taller—just a few centimeters, but it feels like a victory.

I order sashimi and white wine with the appetisers. My friend left after a fight—words so harsh, I couldn’t even repeat them.

The waiter brings sushi with crab and a fish I’ve never heard of. The world is in a pandemic. I’m locked in my flat, my mind spiraling. I pick up a kitchen knife. I nearly end it.

Those sesame wasabi prawns look delicious.

I almost fail my dissertation. I look for a new master’s to fill the void. To keep me moving in this cold, distant city.

Miso soup warms my stomach. Wine and soup? Who cares—not us.

I meet a boy. I fall in love. We have a spectacular year. Life is colourful again.

The waiter returns—do we want more wine? We nod. We laugh. He smiles, expecting a tip.

I haven’t seen my friend in over a year. Our boats drifted apart. But the autumn brings her back. She meets my love. He tells me he loves me. What could go wrong when the city shines with lights and moonlight no longer makes me shiver?

Wine is gone. We’re the last guests. Music floats gently. We’re tipsy and dreaming of the future.

Then I’m lost in Wales. Anxiety takes over. It’s the beginning of the end. A bath. A conversation. I beg him to love me. I try to run—but there’s nothing but cows. I collapse in the kitchen. He holds me. Kisses my tears away. But I don’t see the moon. I don’t see the sun. I feel nothing. I stand in a church, music playing, crying my eyes out. I look up and see his red, tired eyes staring back. I beg for one more hug.

Dessert arrives. Lemon yuzu sorbet. A Japanese wine I can’t pronounce. It’s tattoo-worthy.

We live in miscommunication. Two magnets—drawn together but always repelling. Yet we still have kindness, respect, connection. I cry for our memories. My friend is now two years gone. Doctors. Harsh news. Cameras clicking to capture rare joy. He promises me a library so I’ll never be lonely. I dream of a family with him. He’s scared. Not ready.

I miss my friend. Has she found her lighthouse?

One dessert. Two spoons. A beautiful night. A promise made. A friendship reborn.

I kiss him on the cheek—how could I know it’s the last time? We wander London one last time. Tears fall. Cold means nothing because my heart shatters into pieces.

The bill comes. We leave. One last kiss. One last goodnight.

Later, I sit in a Chinese restaurant. He feeds me. I forgot to eat. I cry. He drives me home. We hug for half an hour. It’s still not enough.

I cry myself to sleep.

Healing starts tomorrow.

We traded love. That’s forever.

I haven’t seen or spoken to my friend in a long time. I’d give you a number, but time isn’t the point.

I sit half-dressed on my bed, writing this. My neighbours watch from their terrace. They’re a sweet couple, always dancing, watching the Thames, sipping wine.

I can’t see my friend. I can’t see my love. It hurts, still. But someday, I’ll sail again with my friend. In search of a lighthouse.

I don’t know what happened to her. Maybe it’s time. Maybe it’s me. Maybe it’s the moon I lost sight of. But my love for her is still there. It always will be.

So, to answer your question, my friend—

What happened to us?

Life.